


Non-Linear

by Besin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anxiety, Bilingual Characters, Casual Marijuana Use, College AU, Consensual Sex, Cultural Differences, Drama, Drunken Confessions of Guilt, Emotions, Future AU, Historian AU, M/M, Making Love, Pancakes, Quiet Meltdowns, Roomates AU, Slow Build, Snowmen, Study abroad au, Time Period Differences, Time Travel AU, Urban AU, age gap, alcohol use, character developement, fast burn, language barriers, self medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: In the year 2453, Ignis Scientia has based his history thesis around the possibility that there was a strong reaction from the Scientific Community undermined by political moves in his era of study. How does he plan to do this? By applying for the prestigious and highly regulated privilege of traveling back in time.While posing as a college student during the upheaval of the academic community following the 2016 election, Ignis met Prompto, a twenty year old man from Kansas. He was Ignis’ roommate, visiting DC on his own exchange program. Prompto – a self-proclaimed Otaku – spoke enough Japanese that Ignis’ possession of maybe half a dozen words in English was not a problem. As their lives played out over the course of the following four months in their small shared dorm room, Ignis began to realize the importance of apologies, regret, the impact of his own actions, and why it’s sometimes better to do something when you know it will make you feel worse in the long run. Mostly, he learned what it was like to fall in love with someone you really shouldn’t.





	Non-Linear

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Arnaud and [Coffee](http://saturnvalleycoffee.tumblr.com) for editing, cheerleading, and generally being wonderful. For translation notes, which I attempted to keep to a minimum, see End Notes.

[Art by the wonderful Kollapsar!](http://kollapsar.tumblr.com)

 

# Part One: Linear

 

For some, time is a linear thing. It is a series of events that happen to you. Lessons learned in a specific order. Rarely is it thought of as the living, moving thing that it is. Faster at times, slower during others. It can drag on or pass in an instant. Eternity and a second are the same thing.

But, in the end, time is what you perceive it to be. Our realities only extend as far as we are willing to stretch. For some, that reality is a linear line – with a beginning and an end composed of birth and death. It makes sense, like few things in life rarely do. Neat bookends on an otherwise hectic life.

For others, life is non-linear. Events in our past change us irrevocably, crammed into a brief flash of electricity in our minds; a memory that only makes sense after the fact. We savor the realization. Allow it to fill us up and change us. Allow the past to destroy our perception of our current selves. Allow what could be – allow the _future_ – to change who we are. We let the guilt of past mistakes set in; let it roil within us until we emerge from ourselves the next day or month or year, tired and angry and sad and just a touch less linear than we were before.

On occasion, this comparison ceases to be a metaphor.

This is the case for Ignis Scientia.

For Ignis’ story to make sense, we must begin in a dorm in the year 2437.

We open on a dark room. The curtains are drawn, the lights dim, and in the center of it all in a small reclining chair sits our main character. Barely a man – a young and bitter twenty-two – his hair is slicked away from his face and his eyes framed by glasses. A strong nose, strong jaw, and sharp green eyes grace his features.

Lifting one hand, finger poised before his glasses – a single nail painted a dull, professional gray – he sweeps across his view with a soft sigh. From the inside of his glasses, a video begins to play. A flick of his finger later, a small green dot appears in the corner of the personal screen. “Tensions had been high during that week. What footage can be found shows very little aside from screaming and rioting. However, there appears to be a cold undercurrent of calm to the panic. Protest signs and chants imply that the man who had been nominated to lead the ‘Free World’ was not in fact voted into power by the people. Whether this is speculation or lies in actual fact has not yet been recorded in textbooks.”

His finger flicks again, and the dot fades. Inside his glasses, the image of a young girl remains frozen in place, holding aloft a single sign reading, “Sexual Assault Is Not A Joke.”

“Moogle,” he murmurs, easing back in his chair, “weather.”

_“It is partly cloudy in Insomnia, Japan,_ ” the bud nestled in his ear chimes. _“Heavy rain is scheduled to fall in two hours on Insomnia’s Shibuya level kupo.”_

“Moogle, save screen and standby.”

_“Yes, kupo.”_

Snatching his glasses from his face, Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh as the footage fades from the lenses in his hand. Then, easing them back onto his ears, he slides out of his seat. He passes a bed on the way to the hall, hand brushing the wall out of habit before drawing it quickly back.

As he approaches the door, a small green dot flashes in his glasses’ bottom right corner. “Sagefire,” he says, and the door flies open.

The hallway is far from bland. Each door is overlaid with a digital display that shines in his glasses personally designed by their occupants. Beyond the lenses there is nothing of note. There is no rainbow glitter or streamers decorating the hall; only white walls that bear down on him as he passes through.

Outside is a land of concrete. Concrete buildings. Concrete ceiling. But through the glasses it is a carefully kept park and overcast skies. Elegant arches lead from building to building and flowers in perfect bloom line the designated sidewalks.

He barely makes it three steps before a body rolls up beside him. He pauses, tipping his glasses off his nose to peer at the small box moving about on the ground where his friend appeared as a digital projection. “Attending classes remotely again, Noctis?” he notes. “Let me guess – headache? Dry mouth?”

“Don’t give me shit, Iggy,” Noctis groans as his avatar casually runs a pale hand through neon orange hair. “Quite frankly, if you hadn’t pissed Gladio off, you’re probably be in the same state.”

“I pissed Gladiolus off? I do believe he was the one who accosted me.”

“Dude, no one’s saying he didn’t. I’m just… You overreacted, okay?”

“Did I?” he spits. “Was I the only person there?”

“You can’t pretend you didn’t see this coming. Don’t play stupid just because it’s inconvenient for your sob story.”

Ignis turns sharply and walks away.

“You can’t play the victim every time he tries to talk to you,” Noctis calls in his wake. “You can’t avoid this forever!”

Ignis manages to cross the gardens and head up to a building before the little bot screams up to him, gears whirring loudly. “You excited for your trip?” Noctis asks, like his small assistant isn’t whining with the effort to keep pace.

“They haven’t agreed to send me,” is the skeptical reply. “I don’t plan on getting my hopes up.”

“Gladio says you’re going to get it.”

Lips purse before Ignis mutters a low, “... Gladio says a lot of things.”

“Your thesis is good.”

Silence.

“Look, before you go you should talk to-”

Ignis strides up the stairs with a sharp, “If you weren’t there, you have no say in this.”

“Ignis, don’t walk away!” Noctis calls after him, anger bleeding into his voice.

“I’m walking away from nothing,” he snaps back, already halfway up the stairs. His lips twist, but shift into a thin line and he continues forward.

The little wheels on the device attempt to struggle up the steps. “You need to apologize, okay? You were out of line-”

“I’m not going to talk about this, Noctis.”

“You’ve been friends for ten years.”

He pauses, shifting to face the avatar with a pointed, “And apparently that isn’t enough time for him to respect my boundaries.”

“Boundaries?” Noctis scoffs. “You’ve got to be kidding. That is _rich_. What about his boundaries, Ignis? What about him in general?”

“Sagefire,” Ignis spits as a small green dot flashes in his glasses.

“Ignis!” Noctis calls as he passes through the door. “Ignis, I’m serious.”

The door falls shut on the words; a proper dramatic exit that sends Ignis half staggering into the building.

The Insomnia Historical Archival Hall is a beautiful building all on its own. There are no scrawled digital decorations. No projections in his glasses. Simply old, carefully preserved architecture that shines with a newly applied layer of polish.

Behind the counter, Gladiolus is bent over the counter, eyes glazed behind his glasses before he taps at the frame and their eyes…

… meet.

Ignis almost jumps when he speaks.

“Insomnia Historical Archival Hall. How may I help you?” Gladiolus asks, tone professional, if a touch chipper, as he recited the script.

“Second millennium archive, please,” he murmurs, averting his eyes to the floor as he steps up to the desk. A set of keys are placed atop the counter. For a moment he hesitates, staring at them. But before long he does so without a word of thanks in exchange. Even as he heads down the hall, he twists them between his fingers nervously. His heart beats fearfully in his chest.

The second millennium archive is locked by an era-appropriate door. One Ignis has to open manually. The lock creaks as he turns the key, and the door groans as he pulls it open.

He holes up in the room for nearly three hours, going over compilation after compilation of social media footage of the hurricanes that hit several months after his focus. Streets flooded. Cars floating down the street. He pauses to make a note, recording everything with his glasses as they played the footage. “Many decided to ride out the storm, despite approaching category five winds, which calmed to category three, due to anything from family size, the presence of pets, or lack of funds. This was the beginning of a number of natural disasters that spawned due to the threat of global warming as the emissions cap approached and the ocean surface temperature climbed. However, what is not known is whether or not the current generations were aware of these impending disasters.”

Hands falling from his glasses, Ignis leans back in the overstuffed chair. For a long time he simply stares at the screen, unmoving. But as the minutes pass his gaze begins to shift. Slowly, he gets up. Approaches one of the folder edge displays that filled the projected walls. Dr. Gin 1975 - 2000. But as his fingers begin to close the distance, the corner of his glasses flash with a red dot.

“ _Access denied, kupo_ ,” they say sharply.

His fingers drop, then rise again, “tapping” at the dot on the screen. “Moogle, request access,” he demands gently.

_“Access denied,”_ the attendant replies again.

“For what reason?”

_“Research topics are too similar in nature. Viewing historical documents by Dr. Gin may influence work. This material is banned to Ignis Scientia until thesis is complete, kupo.”_

Snatching the glasses from his nose, Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

⇋

Ignis essentially collapses when he gets back to his dorm. He bounces on the bed a few times before finding a comfortable position on his side, lazily lifting a hand to check his messages.

_From Gladiolus Amicitia:_

_Noctis said he talked to you._

He closes this very quickly.

_From Noctis Lucis Caelum:_

_You need to apologize to Gladio._

There’s hesitation at this. A pause that reaches his eyes like something too bright.

He navigates quickly out of the screen and opens up a film, easing back onto his pillows with a determined set to his jaw.

About an hour later an orange dot flashes in the corner of his glasses, and he navigates quickly out of the movie before tapping through his messages.

_From Dr. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret:_

_Interview at 7PM tomorrow at the Yoshimoto building to present your case for travel to a board. Apologies for the late warning. I suggest you make a version of your thesis presentable within a half-hour time limit._

For a long time, Ignis could only stare at the message in shock.

_To Dr. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret:_

_Are there any later times I can be fit in?_

The response was swift.

_From Dr. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret:_

_You’re in on a cancellation. The next available slot is due to open up after you get published. If they say no, I can schedule you for another in six months. Is this acceptable?_

Sliding a hand over his face, Ignis purses his lips for a long while and... considers. His tongue flicks out over his lips. His eyes shift to the edges of the room, then back to the glasses. His hand shakes as he types out the response.

_To Dr. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret:_

_That is acceptable. I will begin preparing my thesis for a short presentation. May I ask for a pass for tomorrow’s classes?_

_From Dr. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret:_

_I’ve just sent a message to your teachers. Take as much time as you can._

Rolling onto his back, Ignis navigates out of the messaging app and quickly closes the movie. With a nervous glance at the clock in the upper right corner of his glasses, he hisses out a low, “Twenty-seven hours, huh…”

⇋

About an hour passes before a small star flashes in the corner of Ignis’ glasses.

_“You’ve got a guest, kupo,”_ his digital assistant announces.

Ignis pulls himself from his chair with a low grumble. He slips his glasses off, rubbing tiredly at his watering eyes before approaching the door. “Sagefire,” he grumbles.

Before the door can finish opening, Gladiolus steps into the room and closes it manually.

“I don’t remember inviting you in,” he snaps.

Gladiolus rolls his eyes before his gaze shifts firmly to meet Ignis’. “You’d rather have this talk out in the hall?”

No response.

“Heard you got a hearing.”

“And how, may I ask, did you get that information?”

A scoff. “I’m in my last year of archives. You really think I wouldn’t see your name on a new folder?”

“Why are you here, Gladiolus?”

Leaning against the wall, Gladiolus lets out a choked, angry laugh. “You’re kidding,” he hisses. “You’re not even listening to me.”

Ignis takes a firm step away from the door; a quest for space as opposed to an invitation. “All I’m hearing is that you saw my name on a folder and decided to step into my room without my permission.”

“For the love of- What do I have to _say_ ? I’ve already _said_ that I’m sorry, which I shouldn’t have had to say!”

“Oh, that’s rich-”

_“Yeah, it’s fucking rich,”_ Gladiolus interjects sharply. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? You knew _exactly-_ ”

“What are you-”

“- _toying with me._ Don’t even lie.”

“I wasn’t _toying_ with you.”

“Then _what_?” The words are a poison. An accusation. A plea. “You were being earnest? Because if you were, you’re even crueller than I thought you were.”

Ignis’ eyes harden and his lips purse.

“I’m not the one-dimensional storybook villain you’re making me out to be.” This is lower. Sweeter. Somewhere between a coo and an apology. “And neither are you.”

“I suggest you leave before I call dorm security.”

For a moment Gladiolus can only stare.

A breath of _something_ passes between them. Finality. A decision.

“Okay,” Gladiolus says, voice strangely even. “If that’s the way it’s going to be…” He pauses, and for a brief, complicated moment his expression turns and twists. Resignation. Anger. Disappointment. Then with his face clear, he finishes with a low, “... so be it.”

⇋

Ignis leaves his dorm at exactly 6:15PM the next day. He’s got on his best suit, with a vest and a pair of western-style slacks that hug his legs a touch too much. It’s difficult to move in them. Every wide step brings with it an acute fear that they will rip.

Tucking a small, thin attache case under his arm, he shuffles off down the hall and out of the dorms. He pauses at the rain outside, tapping at his glasses. “Weather.”

_Light showers for another two and a half minutes. Would you like a video as long as the wait?”_

“Yes.”

And with this, a video of kittens playing in a bed of sunflowers began to play.

⇋

The elevator ride up to the surface is long and filled with five more cat videos.

Ignis is a mess of nerves when he finally arrives, stepping out into a white lobby, then moving out through the storm doors.

A bird nearly flies into him as he takes his first step, flitting back up into the trees with a high tweet. He watches it go, eyes casting over the foliage. They arch high above, shading the beaten dirt path leading away from the building. It’s soft beneath his feet; an unusual juxtaposition to the heavy, cold concrete in the city. The breeze is unpredictable and wild as he sets off through the woods, glancing nervously from side to side as a small tanuki scales a tree. The creature gives him a few sparing looks before disappearing beyond a cluster of leafs.

Setting his eyes on the path, Ignis follows it carefully before taking a left at a split in the road. He spares a glance at a carved rock at its center, displaying directions to different buildings before adjusting the attache case beneath his arm and breaking into a light jog. It isn’t long before he arrives. Before the forest gives way to a large brick building crowned with “Yoshimoto Building” and a large, carefully tended Banana tree.

Reaching suddenly into the attache case, he retrieves a tissue and sneezes violently into it. A hollow noise sounds from him as he pulls it away, eyeing the paper before stuffing it back in his carrier. Nose red, eyes watering, he bows quickly to the banana tree – a stuffy and polite, “Good morning, teacher,” on his lips – before he races into the building.

The door is glass, and the moment he gets indoors his allergies begin to clear. Suddenly, his glasses flare to life. _“You have thirty minutes before your meeting. Would you like directions, kupo?”_

“No, thank you,” he murmurs before stepping further into the building. The walls are brick. Tall, red, and obviously aging. The texture is strange against his fingers and he brushes his fingers idly against them as he passes through the hall.

The building is easily a hundred years old. The bricks, he recalls, were far older; salvaged from the destruction of the old Tokyo Station.

A hundred year old building made with five hundred year old bricks. There are sections where the lines are brighter – lime mortar recently applied that have yet to fade to match the other sections – and Ignis pauses to appreciate the new lines before continuing down the hall. Finally, he reaches a door, pushing it open slowly.

In an instant a young woman is at his side – Dr. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret – waving him into the room. “You’re early, as usual,” she praises softly, guiding him further into the room. Her eyes settle away from him, and his gaze follows.

There, seated in a series of chairs, are a slew of other teachers.

“This is Ms. Honda,” Dr. Fleuret begins sweetly, motioning to a young woman with dark hair and a sweet smile.

“I’m the teacher of History in Practice at the National University of Sapporo,” she introduces herself warmly. She’s obviously Japanese, with high cheekbones and eyes a near black, but her greeting is too warm to be native.

Ignis bows politely. “It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard good things about your class.”

She laughs and waves him off.

Dr. Fleuret motions for him to move to the next person. “Dr. Hyppolite, Japanese studies at Tokyo University.”

A hand is offered this time, with a dry, “It’s been a while.” Pale. Foreign. Greek, possibly, though he’s never asked. There were a lot of Greek immigrants in Japan, Ignis being a quarter himself.

Ignis takes it firmly, attempting to keep his unease off his face.

“Good to know you’re making strides,” she says, eyebrow raising firmly.

Quietly, Ignis preens.

Dr. Fleuret casually usshers him forward.

The next person introduces themselves with an enthusiastic, “Dr. Mundi, in charge of Archives and Media Preservation. I’ve only heard good things about you from Gladiolus.” Their dark skin shines in the low light, well cared for, along with the puff of hair pulled into a bun atop their head.

For a second, Ignis nearly loses his footing before recovering with a low, “He’s exaggerating.”

Dr. Mundi smiles at this, teeth bright and straight. “I’ll know for myself in a minute.”

Ignis flushes, attempting to push down the sudden wave of shame that rises high in his stomach.

A hand settles on his shoulder to catch his attention before Dr. Fleuret pulls away. Her expression is bright and friendly as she says, “We’ve still got one more faculty member left to show. Why don’t you get your presentation ready?”

He nods in reply, pushing his glasses up nervously before turning to the wall. “Moogle,” he commands softly, eyes falling upon the small floating .

_“Yes, kupo?”_

“Connect to currently viewed wallscreen.”

_“What would you like to upload?”_

“Thesis Short Version.”

_“Of course, kupo.”_

“Am I late?” Fluent. High. Native Japanese?

Ignis doesn’t bother glancing up at the new voice as Dr. Fleuret’s heels clicked across the room.

“You’re just in time, Dr. Gin. Mr. Scientia just likes showing up early.”

There is the clatter of chairs as Ignis keeps his eyes on the loading screen, frozen.

Dr. Gin.

The person with the same thesis.

Ignis’ lips purse, but just as he goes to turn – to catch a glimpse of this person in question – his video loads and a clip of the first few seconds begins to loop on the screen.

There comes a cheer at his back.

“How about we get this going a bit early?”

He turns at Dr. Fleuret’s voice, eyes surveying the room.

The newcomer is, surprisingly, not Japanese. Large and pale skinned. American? But his voice had been clear and easy to understand.

In a second, Dr. Fleuret is at Ignis’ side with a low, “Sorry about this. You’re not technically supposed to talk directly to Dr. Gin until you’ve… finished your thesis.”

“Why?”

She was quiet for a second before replying softly, “Your thesis are exactly the same.”

Eyebrows furrow. “Exactly?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Exactly.”

“Why wasn’t I told when I presented it?”

Her lips purse. “There are… special circumstances.”

“Special circumstances?” The phrase is foreign to him, pinching his eyebrows and crumpling his nose.

“You’ll be made aware soon enough,” she whispers, taking a step away. “Just focus on your presentation for now.”

He watches her walk away, taking her seat among the others with a flourish of her coat before his eyes shift to the rest of the board. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Ignis Scientia, and the topic of my thesis is turn of the second millennium politics and the stance of the scientific community after the results of the 2016 American election.” He pauses, eyes meeting uncomfortably with Dr. Fleuret’s before he turns back to the wall screen. “Moogle, play.”

The screen shifts, and the preview plays directly into the film.

_“2017; a year of social unrest,”_ the film began, displaying footage of a march from above. _“America had been torn in half in support of two different political factions, and further splintered within, taking the entire world with it. The winner of the political race had been chosen by an ‘electoral college,’ as opposed to the majority vote, which was lost by over 3 million. It sparked conversations about whether or not the electoral college had done its job, or whether or not it was necessary. In the wake of this, hurricanes and wildfires battered the country and surrounding islands; the first of many large steps made by global warming.”_

As the film goes on, Ignis takes a seat off to the side, eyes half on the screen, half on the board. There are a few scattered smiles, but mostly blank expressions. And as the film begins to wind down, they begin to whisper among themselves.

_“Which brings me to my final question,”_ Ignis’ voice says through his earpiece. _“Was the scientific community aware of the cap that approached and the super-events that followed in 2030?”_

Slowly, Ignis rises to his feet and bows politely to the small crowd. “Thank you for your time,” he says plainly, “ and I hope you’ll consider my application for archival trips.” He watches as the board rises to their feet, each approaching to offer him a quick bow before leaving.

Dr. Fleuret comes up with a smile after they leave. “That was good. I wouldn’t have known you’d thrown that together in two days.”

“It took a lot of tea,” he admits softly. “Do you know when I’ll hear back from the admissions group? Or when I’ll have a question and answer panel?”

“You’ll be getting questions in e-mails for this, so keep your eye out for them,” she replies warmly. “Now, tell me – were you nervous?”

He shrugs, replying with a dry, “Not particularly. Do you think I made a good impression on the board?”

“I should hope so. Your thesis is very good. Even if they only got a small glimpse, you’ve done your work and you’d make a good asset to the archive,” she tells him firmly. “Just do yourself a favor and brush up on your English.

⇋

It’s an average day when Ignis receives an E-mail that stares down at him from his glasses.

_From: Dr. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret_

_You’ve been selected for the exchange program in the archives agent branch. Your term is four months. You’ll be posing as a college student. Please report to my office for more information during office hours._

Sinking further into his chair, Ignis breathes out a low, tense breath.

⇋

They test his eyesight and give him glasses – old fashioned ones that pinch his nose and don’t do anything aside from correct his apparently damaged vision. They give him a list in English of his allergies. A medical bracelet and necklace. Six epi-pens, and instructions on how to use them. (He tries to keep his anxiety over the needles – What if they gave him an infection? Did they really use needles back then? He thought they were an early 1400’s thing – to a minimum.) Allergy medication is pushed toward him in small orange boxes. “We couldn’t figure out what Japanese allergy medication looked like,” the doctor tells him softly, “so try not to let these be seen by any medical students. They should fool anyone else.”

Ignis just nods along, taking everything they give him, including a small bottle filled with steroids that he’s apparently supposed to breathe in until his chest stops spasming.

“You have mild asthma,” she tells him. “The air isn’t clean where you’re going.”

“Asthma?” he repeats softly.

“Yes,” the doctor replies firmly.

“What should I expect?”

She sweeps her finger across her front.

_“A large text is being transferred to your account, kupo.”_

“Brush up.”

⇋

The hallway is quiet when Ignis steps out. It’s later in the evening, and while students are milling about from one door to the other, they’re clad in blankets and baggy sleep clothes that trail behind them like capes, hiding yawns with partially coiled hands.

Approaching a door with a large, unnecessarily buff, anatomically incorrect fish doing squats, Ignis murmured a soft, “Moogle, request access.”

_“Requesting.”_

It’s only a bare few seconds before the door flies open, Gladiolus standing tall in the entrance with a sharp grimace.

“Leg day, is it?” Ignis asks, motioning to the fish.

“What do you want?”

“Is Noctis here?”

“Library,” is his barked reply.

Ignis opens his mouth to thank him – to offer a small, polite bow – but as he eases forward he spies something moving in the background.

_Someone_ moving in the background.

In his chest, Ignis feels something lurch.

A sigh follows, and Noctis crawls off his bed to walk towards the door. “What do you want, Ignis?”

The formality doesn’t escape anyone’s attention. The familiar “Iggy” long gone.

“I was hoping we could get something to eat,” he replies, hesitant. His voice is quiet; as if speaking too loud would upend his stomach onto the floor.

Maybe it would.

There comes another sigh. A shift of weight and a hand run through stark black hair. “Okay, I guess,” he drawls, as if agreeing to food is a chore. And maybe it is.

Ignis turns to go, listening to the footsteps that trail behind him as they head down the hall. They continue out of the building, following the rails along the incline in place of the stairs. It’s a while before they arrive at a small, out of the way café, punching their orders into replicators before taking their seats.

They were alone.

“Nice little spot,” Noctis notes lightly. “How’d you find it?”

Cupping his tea between his hands, Ignis nods slowly. “I’d heard about it from a classmate a while back.”

“It’s nice.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Remote.”

Noctis sips from his own cup of soda before turning to his fries. “So what did you want to talk about?” he asks, not sounding the least bit curious.

“I’ve gotten permission to go to 2017,” he announces, a hint of pride in his voice. “Four months. I’ll be posing as a college student in Washington D.C.”

“But you don’t speak English.”

“Apparently there are ways to work around that.”

Noctis gives him a look before turning back to his fries. “You’ve wanted this for a long time. Congrats.”

“My thanks.”

“You gonna apologize to Gladio before or after you go?”

“Why bother?” he drawls in reply. “It’s all going to blow over in a week or two, anyways. Gladiolus never stays angry long.”

For a moment there is silence between them. Blue eyes widen, shocked, then shift up to stare at Ignis in open disdain. Lips falling open, pausing, then dropping open again, Noctis manages a high, “I’m done.”

Ignis glances at the basket of fries, skeptical. “You’ve hardly taken a bite.”

“No, man. I’m just… I’m done. I’m done apologizing for you when you’re being a stubborn ass. I’m done pretending to take your side just so your stupid ego doesn’t take a hit.”

“My ego?”

“Yes, Ignis. Your ego.”

“I don’t have a-”

“There it is!” he exclaims loudly, arms flying up into the air dramatically. “That stupid ego stepping in! You’re allowed to have an ego. You can talk about it. Just don’t let it take over and then turn around and claim it wasn’t there, you know?”

“You-”

“No, _you_ ,” Noctis fires back sharply. His hands fall with surprising calm to the table. “This is about _you_ , Ignis, whether you like it or not.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I might as well have been!” he fires back, voice a low hiss. “He told me _everything_ , okay? About the three weeks. The weed. All of it. As it was going on. He sent me _pictures_ because he was starting to _doubt his reality_.”

Ignis pales.

Shoving his fries away, Noctis spits a sharp, “I’d seen this coming from a mile off. I saw it all, but _no_ . He wanted it to run its course. He just wanted a _chance_ , you know that? And you… You took _advantage_ of that.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“No, you _did_ mean. And I’m done. You can find yourselves some new friends because we’re out.” And with that he shoves back from the table, half falls out of his chair, and storms out of the empty restaurant, sneakers squealing against the freshly polished floors.

Ignis watches him go, not quite sure what to do.

⇋

It’s several days later when Ignis lies in bed, finger twitching nervously before his glasses to take him from his calendar to his messages. Slowly, he selects Noctis’ thread.

_To Noctis:_

_Are you really not going to talk to me?_

_Read three days ago._

Ignis closes the window and takes off his glasses for the rest of the day.

The rest of the week passes in radio silence.

⇋

The day arrives.

His suitcase is heavier than he’d like, filled with clothes that have been amassed over the days. An English phrasebook sits in the curve of his armpit as he pushes the wheeled contraption down the hall. In loose slacks and an old-fashioned dress shirt, embarrassment washes over him as he sidles up to a door, “traditional” glasses on his nose. He looks straight out of a reenactment. Slowly, he lifts a hand to knock on the plain door before him.

After a moment, he knocks again.

_“Just a second,”_ comes a familiar call.

And then the door opens, and Gladiolus and Ignis stare each other down, equally nervous.

Slowly, a throat is cleared. “Is Noctis around?”

“He’s in class,” is the equally hesitant reply. Gladiolus swallows. “Honest, this time.”

Ignis’ eyes turn to the floor, nervous. His tongue swipes over his lips before retreating. “Will he be back soon?”

Dark hair shifts as Gladiolus shakes his head. “Not for another two hours. Back to back classes.”

“Thursday,” Ignis murmurs in realization.

“Thursday,” is the parroted confirmation. “Is… Is today the day?”

Fingers tighten around the suitcase handle. “Yes,” he admits softly. “I leave as soon as I get there.”

Lips purse.

“I should go,” Ignis says at last, turning and taking that first, solitary step.

“The site is above ground, isn’t it?” Gladiolus announces suddenly, hand snapping down to grip the suitcase’s lid. “Are you going to be okay getting there?”

Slowly, Ignis turns back. “Are you offering to help?”

“I… don’t know.”

After a long, tense second, the handle changes hands.

⇋

“You’re really not gonna say anything, huh?” Gladiolus asks as the elevator whirs around them.

Ignis shifts, hands growing tight against the straps of his backpack. “That was the plan.”

With an amused huff, Gladiolus’ gaze turns back to the double doors, then slide to the ceiling. “Pretty good plan.”

“Noctis says I should apologize to you.”

“You’re not gonna, so what’s the point of telling me?”

No answer comes.

Eyes rolling, Gladiolus sighs. “Look, Ignis,” he begins, voice soft, “I’ll be honest with you; the only reason I put up with so much of your shit for the last ten years is because I’ve had a thing for you since I was thirteen.”

“I am aware.”

“We’ve all done things we regret.”

“Are you implying you regret our friendship?”

“I’m saying I don’t forgive you.”

“Quite the leap in logic.”

“To you, yeah.”

It’s then that the elevator lurches, and the doors slide open. Immediately, Ignis sneezes.

“You gonna be okay?” Gladiolus asks.

Pressing his sleeve to his nose, Ignis manages a muffled, “Once we get inside I’ll be fine.”

“Then let’s get going,” comes the gruff reply. A large hand grips the biggest suitcase, lifting it over the divider. He motions forward. “Come on. Hurry up.”

They run as fast as they can, but have to stop several times to allow for sneezing fits.

Sure enough, as soon as they get to the building, Ignis’ labored breaths begin to ease and his eyes stop watering.

“What are you allergic to, again?”

“Mainly? Tree pollen.”

The hallway is populated by a few sparse guards, and more than a few cameras. Ignis glances between them as they make their way down the hall after the lump in his throat shrinks enough to breathe. They walk up to a door, and the woman before it – equipped with a large, automatic rifle – smiles in their direction.

“Mr. Amicitia,” she greets warmly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Ignis has allergies, Ms. Elshett,” is the quick reply. “It’s difficult for him on the surface.”

“Ah. That explains the running nose.”

A sharp sniffle is the reply to this.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” Ms. Elshett commands softly, reaching behind her to unlock the door. “Gladiolus, you have to stay behind. Ignis can handle his things from here.”

“Right. Of course,” is the low agreement. Bags change hands. Suitcases are exchanged.

As he is ushered through the door, Ignis glances back at Gladiolus, framed by walls and backlit by windows in the distance.

“Bring me back something,” he says, expression twitching between emotions so quickly it’s hard to comprehend.

“That’s highly illegal,” is Ignis’ immediate reply before the door slid closed and a realization buds in his brain.

He messed up, didn’t he?

He truly, completely, honestly _fucked up_.

Would Gladiolus even be there when he got back?

“Ignis?”

He turns, eyes falling on Dr. Fleuret’s silhouette, backlit by a machine that pulses and shimmers to the tune of a heartbeat. “Yes?”

Hand sweeping away from herself and toward an open pod, pale skin blue beneath the lights, she insisted a low, “We’re all ready for you. Hop in.”

Glancing around the room, his eyes linger on another pale woman with equally pale straight hair and a dark-skinned woman with tight curls that cover her ears manning the controls. But as a hand settles on his shoulder, he moves toward the pods, sniffing lightly as he climbs into place.

“Aranea’s going to take some scans of your body,” Dr. Fleuret informs him as he settles into the seat, pulling the bags in after him. “You need to remain still as she does that. While we wait, I’ll give you a bit of a refresher.”

As the last bag settles into place at his side, Ignis nods quickly.

“Alright. As you know, you’ll be an exchange student from Tokyo. You are staying in Washington D.C. for four months. As soon as you arrive in the past you’ll receive your papers, a cell phone, and a card with money on it. There will be instructions on how to use it, along with a booklet of customs involving money for the time period. You’ll receive a bi-weekly stipend that you’ll use for food and clothing, should you need it. Only about thirty seconds will pass on our end, so keep this in mind for your return.”

“Ready to go in five!” the dark haired woman calls from the controls. “Four.”

Backing away from the pod, Dr. Fleuret spares him a warm, “Good luck.”

“Three. Two. One.”

Something jerks in his stomach.

⇋

Ignis arrived at 7PM on January third, 2017. He emerged from the pod feeling lightheaded and weak, and the moment his feet landed on older ground, a booklet was pressed into his hand with a dry, “Welcome to 2017, Kagaku, Kasai.”

An alias.

For a moment, he wondered if he would ever remember the name.

⇋

The bus was crowded and messy.

The airplane was nightmare fuel.

 

# Part Two: January

 

Ignis was startled awake by the squealing of the bus’ breaks, dry heaving softly into his mouth even as he came to. Hand firmly over his lips, arm braced on the seat before him, he gave a gentle whine before he turned his eye out the window.

Trees.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wide phone. For a long moment he could only stare at it. Fumble with it. But eventually he managed to tap at it to the point where the screen flashed and a set of instructions set beneath a map greeted him.

_Depart bus and head North_.

“Alright…” he murmured. Stuffing the device back into his pocket, he rose from his seat with a determined grunt before reaching for his luggage. There were a few others doing the same, making their way slowly off the bus, and he joined the line before long, shuffling forward until he was ushered out the door.

_In 300 meters turn left,_ his phone displayed as he made his way up the street, wheezing lightly.

“300 meters?” he read softly. “How far is 300 meters?” Turning his eyes to the map, he peered at it closely before turning his attention to the road. Staring up the hill, he carefully looked both ways, then fixed his eyes on the small green light shaped like a pedestrian on the other side of the street. “Crosswalk,” he murmured softly. Nervously, he stuck his foot out over the white lines. “Look both ways and follow the signs,” he whispered to himself. “Look both ways and follow the signs.”

⇋

People were everywhere when Ignis arrived at what his phone insisted was his dormitory. He couldn’t tell if the building was new or old. Couldn’t tell if the students were staring or if he was just unused to the unfiltered gazes of other people – people without glasses. As his eye lit on a line winding out the front doors of the building, Ignis referenced his phone, swiping through list after list until he found one in particular.

_Line up for your room assignment._

With nothing better to do, he joined the masses at the door. Suitcases were balanced precariously. Bags were jostled occasionally. The line moved jerkily, sometimes utterly still, others requiring multiple steps forward until he was through the doors.

He was waved forward by a woman with dark skin and tight black curls pulled into twin pigtails. Her voice was low and fast when she spoke; pleasant. But as she drew to a pause, Ignis shook his head slowly.

“I don't speak English,” he informed her softly. It was the only phrase he knew.

She immediately beamed.

Ignis blinked.

Reaching into her jacket pocket, the woman produced a phone. Tapping through, she brought it to her lips before mumbling something. A word came from the phone he couldn’t begin to understand.

“Japanese,” he said, hoping the English word was similar.

Going by her expression, it was not.

“ไทย?” her phone said after she tapped through a bit.

“No,” he replied softly in English.

“한국어?”

“No.”

“中文?”

“No.”

“日本語?”

He paused. “Yes,” he replied, nodding.

The woman smiled, typing into her phone. “Name,” it said. “Sania,” she added, pointing to herself. Then she motioned toward him, prompting the phone to repeat itself. “Name.”

For a moment, he visibly struggled before answering, “Kagaku, Kasai.”

“Kagaku,” Sania repeated softly, turning to her book. She dragged her finger down the page before turning to the other people at the table.

Ignis could only assume she excused herself because she stood, motioning for him to follow before stepping out from behind the table. The hallways were patched and long, filled with doors and slowly but surely decorated with streamers and personalized paper cut-outs. But his eyes didn’t wander long as Sania led him up a series of stairs before guiding him to a door marked 404.

Ignis stared at it even as she shoved a key into his hand. Even as she walked away. Even as he was left in the hallway, alone save for a few probably-still-teens rolling an enormous bean-bag as tall as Ignis down the hall. They were attempting futilely to push it through the narrow door frame by the time he reached for the knob of the room labeled “Death-Zero-Death”2. His dorm assignment was surprisingly clean, with wide windows flooding the room with natural light. It was inviting, as of in spite of the foreboding number. He’d just set about unpacking his things when the door creaked open and a rail thin, pale figure stepped into the room.

With a GameCube in one hand and a twelve-pack of ramen under his arm, a young man with bright blond hair practically fell through the doorway and greeted Ignis warmly, words gibberish and waving the game system with a wide grin. His clothes were black, with leopard print subtly touching the fabric of his pants, each item carefully riddled with studs.

Ignis, in his dress shirt and slacks, was quiet, but took the hand that was offered.

It was a brief, awkward first meeting. One punctuated by the words, “I don't speak English,” and a blatant, universal, “Fuck.”

⇋

The next morning, Ignis stared down what he’d gotten from the corner store skeptically; an “organic” protein bar and an energy drink with some kind of animal on the side. He stared at them for a long time before skeptically opening the drink, then promptly dropped it in the nearest trash can.

⇋

His roommate, it appeared, was in his first class. He waved Ignis over, tapping through his phone and doing the same thing Sania had done, attempting language after language until Ignis turned and fixed him with a look and a hopeful, warm, “Japanese?” broke the air, not from a phone, but from pink, chapped lips.

Ignis blinked. “Yes,” he replied softly. “Yes, I speak Japanese.”

Arm punching through the air, the blond man cheered before quickly sobering. “ _Great_. I didn’t want to guess Japanese at first because I thought it would be too good to be true, you know? But I guess it makes sense that they would pair us up since we’re probably the only two who speak it.”

Slowly, Ignis nodded. “You… You speak Japanese.”

Pale fingers pointed back at a flushed, freckled face. “Otaku.”

“What for?” Ignis asked. “Classic literature?”

Lips pursed, then admitted a low, “Anime. Games.”

“Ah.” Ignis nodded firmly. “Makes sense. I hear visual media is a good way to learn.”

“I’m Prompto, by the way,” the man offered, suddenly enthusiastic, hand barrelling between them like it had the day before. “Nice to meet you.”

“Kagaku, Kasai,” Ignis replied softly. Then, a touch louder, “People call me Iggy.”

“Iku*? Are you always moving around or something?”

“... No,” he said after a while, expression briefly suspended in disbelief. “It’s with a g. It’s short for Ignis, the latin word for fire.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Most wouldn’t.”

“So, uh…” Prompto shifted, waving a hand nervously as if to sweep away the awkwardness. “What’s your next class?”

Easing back in his chair, Ignis reached into his dress shirt’s front pocket to retrieve his phone. Navigating through the menu, he quickly found his schedule and announced softly, “Contemporary World Problems.”

“CWP? Which teacher?”

“... Calahan.”

“I hear they’re tough. Who’s next?”

“History with Pu…” He paused, struggling with the name. “Purrelli.”

“Same as me. Why do you have two history-themed classes in a row?”

“Probably because I’m a history major,” Ignis murmured in reply, dropping his phone back into his pocket.

“What?!” Prompto half shouted, drawing eyes from all over the class.

Ignis shifted uncomfortably.

“Dude,” he continued sharply. “ _Dude_ , we have the same major! What are the chances?”

“Very slim.”

“What part of Japan are you from?”

Ignis froze.

“Touchy subject?”

“No. I’m from Shibuya.”

“In Tokyo? _Sweet_.”

“Very.” It wasn’t technically a lie. He lives in Shibuya. It’s just that they were talking about two different Shibuyas.

Prompto’s Shibuya doesn’t exist any more.

“What’s it like?”

Ignis looked away, pulling out his phone and pretending to get an alert. “Lots of concrete.”

⇋

As soon as the class ended, Prompto was back at his side, sitting backwards on a chair. “You’re here on an exchange program, right? I am, too. Sorta. I’m from Kansas, though – that’s west of here. What year are you?”

Ignis hesitated before replying, pretending to sort through his backpack before turning to meet sharp, focused blue eyes. “This is my fifth year of college.”

Blond eyebrows arch. “Fifth? Whoa. This is only my second. What’s your focus? Do you have a thesis?”

A nod followed, slow and purposeful. “Scientific advancements throughout history and social acknowledgement of technology.”

“That sounds complicated.”

He nodded again. “It is.”

“That’s the coolest, though,” Prompto gushed, eyes bright and mouth split in a wide grin. He glanced at his phone, then drew his legs out from the back of the chair. “Guess I gotta go. I’ll see you at three for CWP, though, ‘kay?” he offered, flailing slightly as he stumbled out of the seat.

“Sure,” Ignis agreed. Idly, he wondered if one could attend classes via projection in 2017.

⇋

As soon as class ended, there came the sound of hundreds of footsteps. Students marching through the halls.

Ignis followed, phone at the ready, recording it all. They led him out of the building, off campus, and down the street before he realized the time. Before he spotted the ominous 2:45PM in the upper right corner of his screen and his chest gave an angry lurch. He immediately spun on his heel, glancing about for the school that had faded behind a suburban dream. He fumbled for the map application, biting his lips firmly.

By the time he got to his next class, all but one seat was taken. Prompto grinned up at him as he approached. “I saved you a seat.”

Someone shushed him from up front.

Prompto flashed him the page he was working on.

Ignis froze, spotting the Japanese script that filled the page. “Are those notes?” he whispered.

A smile, sheepish, followed. “Yeah. Figured we could both use them this way. It’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it,” he whispered nervously.

“You didn’t have to.” There came a lurch from his stomach. This was big. Or was it normal? Was it common courtesy to make the best effort for others in the past? Or was Prompto just genuinely considerate?

Laughter, quiet and nervous, followed. “Anyways, you’re late. Did something happen? You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s late normally.”

“I… got lost.”

“In that case, give me your number. We can exchange schedules and stuff, and I can send you warnings whenever you’ve got a class coming up until you get the hang of things.”

It took Ignis a while to agree, all the while a bitter something gnawed at his stomach. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to let the thought linger. But still, it was there; the knowledge that Prompto – considerate, enthusiastic, kind Prompto – might one day send him a message and he won’t reply.

This man was going to die 400 years before Ignis would be born.

⇋

At around 8AM, Ignis opened his laptop for the first time and attempted to connect to the thing called “Wi-Fi.”

Except he couldn’t.

For a long time he stared at the connection settings and they repeatedly prompted him for a password. Glancing back at the instructions on his phone, he made a face. “A password may be required” indeed. Such a strange world to charge for information.

Prompto entered the room as he usually did at that point; by dodging the door frame he’d been about to slam into and shaking something off his foot. “Man, I just realized – we’re in room 404. Like, in English it’s a joke. An error code, you know? But I’m pretty sure whoever assigned us this room wasn’t aware it reads ‘Death-Zero-Death’* in Japanese. That’s kinda creepy.”

Ignis could only stare.

“Uh… Need something?”

“Wifi password,” he replied lightly.

“Oh, right. It’s the college initials and the year. D-C-S-U-1-7.”

“Desu*?” Ignis muttered, incredulous.

Prompto snorted, hands waving away the suggestion. “No, no! C, it’s E!” he insisted, amused. “Oh my _God_. D-C-S-U-2-0-1-7, okay? All caps.”

Slowly, Ignis turned to his computer and typed it in, though he couldn’t restrain the small snort that fought from his chest.

“Hey, Iggy.”

“Yes?” he asked, glancing up.

Prompto’s foot popped, and a finger pressed into his cheek as he let out a childish, feminine, “Desu?”

All of a sudden, a laugh burst from Ignis like a force of nature.

A clumsy bow met the outburst. “My work here is done.”

⇋

As the weeks passed, Ignis noted a slew of students knitting pink hats. “What are those for?” he asked Prompto one day in the cafeteria, pausing his great endeavor of pushing his chicken and rice around his plate in dissatisfaction.

“The hats?” Prompto asked, unsure. “They’re for the million women march thing that’s going down tomorrow.”

“That’s tomorrow?”

“Yeah. You know about it?”

“Not much. May… I ask why it’s going down?”

“Oh. The current President apparently thinks it’s okay to grab women... “ He motioned down. “So they’re protesting misogyny being excused to the point that a man with a history of sexual assault somehow managed to become the most powerful man in the world.”

“That sounds like a good thing to protest. What are the hats for?”

“They’re pussy hats.”

“Pussy hats?”

“... It’s a pun, I think.”

“Would you mind explaining it?”

⇋

Ignis found a hat on the ground a few hours later; knit pink and covered in dirt and pine needles. He washed it in the sink.

⇋

Prompto stumbled into the room late that night, wasted and smelling of weed.

⇋

The morning of the march dawned crisp at the edges. Ignis layered as best he could. The wool coat was long and bulky, reaching over his wrists and gripping his thighs. With camera in hand and his phone stuffed in his inside pocket, Ignis set out to find the march.

It took him two minutes.

⇋

As the march wound down to an enthusiastic protest, Ignis took a seat on the first thing he could find – a fountain. He shifted his camera from side to side, attempting to capture the crowd until his arm grew tired. Stuffing it away, he watched as people walked about. As they hoisted signs above their heads, long past the point of exhaustion.

Then, through the crowd, he spotted a familiar head of styled blond hair. Hair that shifted and turned. Hair that gave way to blue eyes. To a bright smile that sent a shiver up Ignis’ spine.

Prompto fought through the crowd, shielding his camera from stray signs and elbows until he arrived, attempting in vain to pass off his breathlessness as casual. “ _Hey_ , man,” he gasped. His foot scraped along the concrete, and a smashed cherry sat in its wake. “I, uh, didn’t know you were coming.”

“You didn’t ask,” came the low reply.

Prompto plopped onto the fountain at his side, motioning to the camera. “I’m getting the _best_ footage. This is going to make a sweet MoogleTube compilation. Think I got all I need, actually. You wanna get some… You drink tea, right? I’ll buy you a cup.”

Ignis glanced around the march one last time before, against his better judgement, he complied with a light, “Sounds nice.”

The tea had sugar in it

Ignis spat it out across the pavement and Prompto’s pants.

⇋

He washed Prompto’s pants in the sink.

Prompto sat at his side the whole time, laughing in nothing but his underwear and a light tank top. “Man, this is not how I thought this day would end.”

“Neither did I. How did you imagine this day would end?”

“Balls deep in some lady in a pink hat, to be honest.”

Ignis made a face, pulling off his own hat.

“Dude, you asked.”

⇋

P.E. was a horrible invention and it needed to die. Who thought it would be a good idea to torture people to get muscles? As Ignis reached for his inhaler, taking a desperate breath at the mouth of the device even as his fingers fumbled for the top, squeezing uselessly at the plastic casing, this was all he could think of.

_“You have asthma,”_ the doctor had said.

Suddenly, the woman from check-in was at his side, one hand carefully taking hold of his shoulders to right him, the other urgently holding out her phone. “Are you okay?” the device asked. She tapped it again, holding it out to him.

“I have asthma,” he managed, even as he realized it for the first time. “I… I have… asthma.” His gasp felt like a gulp.

The phone disappeared. Then Sania’s hands took the inhaler from him, pressing it to his lips and pushing down on the top.

_“Oh_ , _”_ was Ignis’ only thought as he greedily inhaled the steroids.

Patting his back, Sania consulted her phone quickly before saying in heavily accented Japanese, “Good, good.”

He coughed.

“You good?” she asked, holding the phone out to him.

“I’m okay,” he responded quickly, making no move to remove the hands.

Sania smiled as the phone translated for her, and tapped at the button with a smile before speaking into it. “That is good,” it announced after a moment.

Their eyes met as the inhaler dropped with his arm, shoved quickly into his pockets. “Thank you,” he said, leaning into the microphone.

“You’re welcome,” she replied without missing a beat, sans the phone.

Ignis blinked.

She mumbled into the phone. Before long, a stilted, “I’m learning,” hung between them.

A moment passed between them, filled with a quiet bow from Sania and followed by a gentle bow in return from him. “Please take care of me,” he murmured after a moment.

Her smile was bright and eager, and this time when she typed into the phone, she didn’t send the answer to audio. Instead she turned to him and stated clearly, “Leave it to me.”

⇋

Tired, sweaty, and sore, Ignis left P.E. with a grudge and arrived at the dorm with a slight limp. His chest hurt. His eyes hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. There was a nausea in his stomach that roiled and twisted. One that tea wouldn’t fix; he knew.

But when he gently closed the bedroom door behind him, turning slightly, all thoughts of P.E. fled.

There, stock still on the bed, laid Prompto, blankets twisted around his body as his eyes fixed firmly on Ignis and he froze like an inappropriately dressed researcher in Antarctica.

Ignis stared.

Prompto stared back.

“Am I… Am I interrupting something?”

Eyes widened further as a section of the blankets deflated. He was alone.

They were alone.

“No,” Prompto managed to squeak after a while. He cleared his throat. “Um… No. No, I’m just…” obviously naked under the blankets and not expecting you, “... doing some… thinking. Under the, uh… The covers.”

Ignis took the desperate attempt at an out with a nod.

“I’m just…” He coughed. “I’m gonna take my trail of thought to the, uh… bathroom.”

Another nod. Then Ignis watched, against his better judgement, as Prompto rose and walked stiffly away from his bed.

Followed by a slick noise.

A thud.

And then a bright pink dildo bounced from beneath the chastity blanket to bound its way across the carpet and land near shiny leather shoes.

Before Ignis could process what had just happened, a pale hand snatched up the offending silicone toy as the owner fled toward the bathroom and promptly collided with the door frame like a fly attempting to escape its pursuers. There were two more hasty attempts before the nervous body disappeared, hidden from view by five centimeters of hollow pressed wood, at best, that did nothing to contain the agonized wail to follow.

English spilled from the bathroom, punctuated by the odd “fuck.”

Without anything better to do, Ignis quietly walked over to his bed and peeled off his sweaty shirt before crawling between the blankets and awkwardly staring at the ceiling.

⇋

Long before Prompto came out of the bathroom, the ruckus began. Shouts rising from the hallway. Hurried footsteps. Angry yelling.

Then the bathroom door opened, and blue eyes remained fixed on the floor. “Sorry,” he squeaked, bowing deeply. “I’m so sorry.”

“Never mind that,” Ignis replied quickly. “What are they shouting in the hall?”

“Huh?”

Ignis motioned to the door.

Prompto took a few cursory steps forward before he paused, dragged himself and his sheets over to the dresser, and then pulled on a pair of pants before dropping the chastity blanket. Shirtless and looking far too skinny for his own build, he pulled open the door and called out. There was a reply in seconds, and then he was back, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“What’s wrong?”

“Dude,” he began, almost as if in disbelief, “45 just put a gag order on the EPA.”

“45?”

“The _President_.”

A sharp moment passed between them as color drained from both their cheeks. “The President put a gag order on the Environmental Protection Agency?”

“Yeah. It’s _wild_ ,” Prompto gasped, immediately striding to his bed and reaching for his laptop. Propping it open atop his bare bed, he waved Ignis over. “Apparently Twitter is blowing up. Science organizations are going rogue. Look-” As the page loaded, he poked at the top of the screen with a triumphant, “I can’t believe it. It says, ‘ _You can take our_ official Twitter, _but you_ 'll never _take our free time_ !’ I can’t even _believe_ what is happening right now.”

For the following hour, a terrifying truth unfolded before Ignis.

His thesis was right. The scientific community was so aware of the upcoming global emissions cap that people were beginning to panic.

He was right.

It felt like a panic attack.

⇋

A few days later, the gag order was dropped, but Prompto had already bought a Rogue Nasa T-shirt. “The money goes to STEM,” he’d said.

⇋

On January 30th, Ignis was awoken at approximately 5:34 in the morning to an insistent hand on his shoulder and a hissed, “Iggy, wake up!”

Ignis startled, struggling to open his eyes. “Is something wrong?” he asked, glancing slowly around. He was prepared for panic. For another horrible set of news about the quickly declining state of the world.

Prompto promptly threw open the curtains and motioned dramatically through the windows, arms half flailing as he hissed a high and squeaky, “Snow.”

Struggling up, Ignis took note of the dusting of white along the sill. Then the flutters that fell from the sky. Finally, the ocean of white covering everything revealed itself as he squinted out at the unusually bright world. A wave of relief rolled over him. There was no panic. No crisis. Only the bright, peaceful blanket over the ground.

“Come out with me!” came the earnest demand.

Green eyes shifted from white to blue.

“Dude, I’ve never seen snow before. I _have_ to go check it out.”

Eyebrows furrowed. “You’ve never seen snow?”

Prompto blew a raspberry. “Nah, man. I’m from _Kansas_ ,” he said, like that meant something. “Please? If I slip and kill myself on the steps, who’s gonna call 911? I need you, man.”

For a moment, Ignis nearly turned over and pulled the blankets back over his head. His fingers were twisted with the hem of the blanket. His eyes were already drooping. But as he prepared to yank the fabric up, a thought raced through his mind.

Was this normal?

Should he play along?

He wasn’t sure. There was no way to be sure. And with this realization he threw off the blankets and immediately reached for his coat.

Prompto’s fist punched the air. “Yes! I’ll buy you some hot chocolate or something when we’re done, okay?”

The only response to this is a hesitant shrug.

Clad in a scarf, gloves, and a poofy coat, Prompto raced out into the hall and on ahead as soon as they stepped out the door. Ignis watched in amusement, a soft smile lighting his lips as he locked the door in their wake. He followed at a sedate pace. The stairs creaked as he made his way down, eyes on the man bursting with excitement already waiting for him at the landing.

“Come on, come on!” Prompto groaned, staring up between the arm rails. “Aren’t you excited?”

Ignis snorted. As soon as he made it to the base, he watched as his roommate raced to the door.

“Come on!” he said again, waiting at the exit like an excited puppy about to be let outside. Though as soon as Ignis grew close he grabbed the handle himself and headed out into the snow. “Have you ever built a snowman?” he called back in his wake.

“I haven’t,” Ignis replied loudly, closing the door behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boot; hardly an inch.

“You’ve _seen_ snow before, right?”

A nod, spare at best as he recalled the information on his ID. “Yes. We get quite a bit in Shibuya.” On a schedule.

“Then how have you never built a snowman?”

“It never appealed to me.”

Prompto groaned, then raced up, hand wrapping around a bare wrist. “Then join me. You’re going to help me build this guy.”

“Why?”

“Because you _obviously_ missed out on a key part of childhood and that needs to be _rectified_ ,” he drawled in reply, eyes rolling pointedly.

Ignis’ jaw squared, and a firm “No” hovered at the tip of his tongue. Then, surprising himself, he bit it back. Would declining be weird? Were “snowmen” a rite of passage of some sort? Like “riding a bike”? Was this some unspoken faux pas?’

When Prompto began to tow him toward the part of the lawn where the snow was thickest, he allowed himself to be dragged.

“Think it’s too dry?” Prompto asked a few minutes later, after scooping as much of the snow together as he could, staring down at the powdery pile left in his wake. Collapsing back onto the lawn, he breathed a soft sigh. “Guess that’s a wipe.”

For a while, Ignis made no move. Then, easing forward onto his knees, he took a small bit of snow into his bare hands, opened his mouth wide, and gently exhaled, moisture dancing in the air over the crystals that shifted as heat hit them. Then, with the utmost care, he fashioned them into a ball.

It held.

“Whoa,” Prompto gasped as he half threw himself forward to peer at the snowball. “How’d you do that? You got a magic mouth or something?”

“You said it was too dry, so I melted it a bit,” came the soft answer.

Bright lashes fluttered at this, surprised. “That’s… pretty smart.”

They finished the snowman before long. Ignis’ hands turned bright red as they grew colder and colder, until gloved fingers wrapped around his slowly purpling digits. “Dude,” Prompto began, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t notice. Let’s get you that tea, okay? Warm you up.”

“That sounds nice,” Ignis replied, voice so quiet he could hardly hear himself.

As they rose to their feet, both of them realized something very important… but they wouldn’t understand it for a while.

⇋

There was a small café near the college that Prompto guided them to. There were string lights all around the room, twining around tables and along the walls. They cast shadows along their arms and illuminated their faces like thousands of fireflies.

“What do you want to drink?” Prompto asked, motioning to the board that hung from the ceiling.

Ignis’ eyebrows arched. “I don’t read English, either,” he reminded the man again.

Prompto’s lips pursed, then he laughed. His teeth were white against the flushed skin of his cheeks. “Oh. Right, sorry. I forget sometimes we’re speaking Japanese.”

“You forget?”

“Well, yeah. The key is thinking in Japanese. Fewer steps to translate, you know? Now, do you just want some tea? I’m pretty sure they give it to you without sugar here.”

A nervous glance at the woman waiting to take their order didn’t assuage anything within Ignis, but nonetheless a strange bravery rose within his chest. “Why don’t you order for me?” he suggested, eyes fixed on the menu. “What do you think I’d like?”

The smile to follow his words was far warmer than either of them expected.

Prompto turned to the woman waiting for their orders, pointing to the menu as he spoke before swiping his debit card. Then he motioned for Ignis to take a seat with him.

They were eventually brought two coffees. Ignis stared at it for a long time before Prompto’s hands slid forward to take Ignis’, dragging them across the table to wrap around the warm cup.

“C’mon, man. Warm yourself. You’ve already got frost nip. Give it a try!”

Another skeptical look at the cup. As he brought it to his lips, all he could think of was how the drink fell out of fashion with capitalism and how it never quite made a comeback in the future.

The moment it hit his tongue, his eyebrows snapped together.

Prompto’s laugh was abrupt, loud, and nearly startled the drink out of Ignis’ hand, splashing a bit onto the table. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chortled as he reached for the napkins by the window, mopping up the slight spill. “I’m just – Your _face_.”

“My face?”

“You really like it, don’t you? The coffee.”

“It’s…” Ignis stared down at the cup, surprised. “It’s very good.”

Another laughed followed. This time quieter. Warmer. “Good. I’m glad you like it.”

It was a while before Ignis spoke again. Before he instigated a conversation with a low, hesitant, “Thank you for buying this for me.”

A pale, ungloved hand waved him off. “It’s just coffee. I mean, you put up with the whole ‘snowman at five in the morning’ thing. You don’t have to thank me. You’ve already helped me a lot… magic mouth.”

Ignis took a sip of his coffee, expression blank as his hands warmed themselves against the cup.

“You know,” Prompto began softly, “you’re a good guy.” Then, turning back to his coffee, he took a long, languid sip.

And then there was silence.

Meanwhile, Ignis’ mind was reeling. Was he a good guy? Would he have joined Prompto if he hadn’t been concerned for his cover story? No. No, he wouldn’t have. This had nothing to do with whether or not he was good or something other than that.

He suddenly couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone along with Gladiolus and Noctis’ plans. The last time he’d caved and given them their way.

Meanwhile, Prompto just bought him coffee, which he definitely didn’t have to do.

When they got back to the room, Ignis took off his glasses and climbed into a hot shower. He scrubbed his skin until it burned, raw and red, and then sat at the bottom of the tub as the water cascaded over him.

He felt like something inside his chest was breaking.

It felt like himself.

 

# Part Three: February

 

Prompto uncharacteristically arrived quietly, knocking politely on the open dorm door with tickets clutched in his hand, on the third of February. “You, uh…” He cleared this throat. “You wanna catch a show with me tonight? I wanted to apologize for the… last week.”

For a long second Ignis was clueless. “Last week?” he asked, confusion plain. “Are you talking about the snowman?”

“I’m… I’m not talking about the snowman.”

He was about to open his mouth. About to ask what he could possibly feel the need to apologize for. That was precisely when the image of a pink, sloppy dildo wobbling in the air and bouncing toward his shoes careened through his thoughts like a moose through snow. “Oh,” he croaked, nervous. “Do I… Is there a dress code?”

“I mean, sort of?” Prompto offered. “That’s like… Yeah, you’d be a little overdressed. Do you own any jeans?”

“No,” was the immediate reply. “They… chafe.”

“Oh. Then, uh… Let’s…” He paused. “I have an idea.”

⇋

The idea was a thrift store.

“What are we looking for?” Ignis asked, not for the first time.

“Something business casual,” came Prompto’s reply.

Business casual?

What did that even mean?

“Maybe a band t-shirt and a suit jacket,” Prompto mused to himself after a while. “But why do none of these jackets have the tone of your pants?” He groaned, thumbing through another rack with quickly dwindling patience. He added another shirt to the pile, then shoved them at Ignis. “Here. Try these on.”

Taking the articles without complaint, Ignis stumbled toward the dressing room, where he was given a number and admitted to a dressing room. Prompto followed him in, locking the door behind them. Unbuttoning his shirt, Ignis draped it over the bench with a sigh. For a moment he spied himself in the mirror. Eyed the way his undershirt hugged his torso. Then he turned back to the shirts.

Meanwhile, Prompto’s nose was buried in his phone.

Grabbing up the first article – silk, black – he buttoned it up to the throat quickly before discarding it just as fast.

“That one was good,” Prompto complained.

“It made me feel naked,” was the immediate rebuttal. “I’d rather not feel naked at a concert.”

“Touché,” Prompto replied in not-Japanese.

The second shirt was too tight in the armpits. The third was too small. The fourth, Prompto insisted, had been a joke. But as Ignis buttoned it up to the neck, he watched through the mirror as Prompto rose from his seat and suppressed a shiver as hands ran across the back of purple leopard print.

“It’s looks good.” Simple words.

He fought back another shiver. “It’s tight at the throat.” The complaint was half whispered at best.

Sneakers squealed against the dressing room floor as Prompto rounded him. Pale fingers found the top buttons, undoing them slowly. There was something intimate about it. Sensual. “You look good.”

Ignis glanced in the mirror.

Did he?

“It’s missing something.”

That was the only warning Ignis got before Prompto undid his necklace and offered it up. A quick glance at the clasp later he bent forward; a hopefully universal “put it on me.”

An adam's apple bobbed. Cheeks flushed a brilliant red. As narrow hands came up around Ignis’ neck, he resisted the sudden urge to wind his arms around the younger man’s trim waist.

Sneakers squeaked as Prompto moved away, necklace in place. “Looks good,” he noted again, visibly nervous.

“Will it work for the concert?” Ignis asked.

There was a moment that followed; a beat of silence where Prompto looked unsure of what had just been asked before he nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, it’ll definitely work for the concert. You look like you could be part of the lineup.”

Ignis couldn’t help the grin that split his face. A blush warmed his cheeks.

“Oh, look at him. He’s bashful,” came the gentle teasing as an arm slid around broad shoulders. “Just remember me when you sign that modeling deal, okay? _I_ was your inspiration.”

Sobering quickly at this, he nodded softly. “I’ll certainly remember you.”

⇋

As soon as the music began, Ignis slapped his hands over his ears and tried not to scream. A hand found his, and in minutes he found himself in a grimy bathroom lit by a flickering overhead light that swayed to the beat of a distant bass.

“Do you want to leave?” Prompto asked.

“No,” was the immediate reply. “I want to stay. I just… didn’t expect it to be so loud.” _I don’t want to ruin your night._

Pale hands fiddled with bulky headphones. Before he slid them off his neck. “Here,” he offered, pushing them into Ignis’ chest.

Catching them quickly, he stared down at them, confused.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to put them on?”

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive to listen to music while attending a live show?”

Prompto snorted. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Just put them on without plugging them into anything. They’ll tone down the noise a bit. I did this a lot when I was younger.”

With a short hum of acknowledgement, Ignis glanced from the filthy bathroom door to the pale man before him. Then, lifting the headphones up, he slid them over his ears.

The noise was tolerable after that. After Prompto dragged him back into the pit. The music wasn’t anything Ignis was used to. It was loud and rambunctious with a heavy use of vocals and a probably normal for the era amount of guitar. Altogether, it became something he wanted to tune out.

He didn’t know what made him listen. Didn’t know what kept him at the front with Prompto, occasionally tapping his foot to the beat that didn’t remain consistent. But it was all for nothing either way, as the moment they stepped out of the building Prompto drawled a low, “You didn’t have to pretend to like it for my sake, you know.”

“They were good,” Ignis deflected softly. “Just not my cup of tea.”

“Dude. Don’t lie. They were terrible. Pretty sure the second bass wasn’t even plugged in.”

Ignis snorted.

“Thanks, though,” Prompto continued softly. “For coming with me, that is. Thanks. This was supposed to be an apology, but I guess… I don’t know.” He ran a hand nervously through his bangs; the only unstyled section of his hair. “Let’s do something you want to do when we get back, okay? I’ll even sit down and play Monopoly for six hours if you want.”

Something Ignis wanted to do?

He was stumped.

“We could…” He paused.

“Got nothin’?” Prompto asked, voice light. “That’s fine. I can make it up to you next time. Or tomorrow or something.”

“You could… show me how to play that game of yours.”

“Game? Which one?”

“The one with the character in green… exploring things.”

“That is really vague, man. Luigi’s Mansion or Legend of Zelda?”

Ignis perked. “Zelda,” he repeated softly, nodding.

Prompto’s face turned skeptical. “Okay, man. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

⇋

The Gamecube was blocky and sturdy, perfectly fine even after a trip to the floor. “So. Zelda,” Prompto clipped. “Do you want a hard one or an easy… _easier_ one?”

“Easier,” Ignis selected.

“Cool. Ocarina of Time it is. Good. I wasn’t in the mood to scream at the TV tonight.” With a distracted grin, he popped a small disc in the console before snapping it shut. As soon as he poked the power button, the machine hummed to life before playing a video of a rolling cube, followed by a menu.

“That loaded fast,” Ignis noted, thinking pointedly of his laptop.

“N64s load faster. Less data, you know? It’s nice to not have to worry about it overheating, though. That’s why I like the Gamecube here.” He patted the lid affectionately. “It’s nice to not have to wrap ice in a towel and cool the station’s fever every time I want to work my way through a dungeon.”

“That sounds... tedious.”

“Dude, I still have no idea how I survived my entire first year of college with just an N64 with a fever problem. Since I got my Cubey here, I can’t imagine going back. A lot of the games I like have rereleased on this, anyways.”

The rest of the night went much like this, with Prompto reminiscing happily about his time living in Kansas. His school life. The bars that didn’t card. The good weed. The bad weed. The generally okay weed. His hopes for his degree. His dream to record modern history. His worries that he’ll be stuck working in some library after he’s done, not allowed or not able to travel and record.

“I want… I want to _report_ on it. While it’s still happening, you know? A real journalist with an emphasis on how we’re repeating the mistakes of our past.”

“You’re amazing,” Ignis couldn’t help but gasp.

“Eyes on the screen,” Prompto had snipped back, face flushed and eyes fixed nervously on an enemy as it approached. He sighed. “Sorry for snapping.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” was the soft reply.

His shoulders sagged. “I’m just… worried. About my future. The competition for this kind of job. The… economy, you know?”

“Have you… considered moving to Japan?”

Prompto looked up sharply.

Ignis felt his stomach drop.

“I hadn’t considered that,” was the slow realization. “It would be a special sort of niche there, wouldn’t it? Something I might be able to do on the side, maybe.”

A nod was the only reply. Ignis tried to keep his lips from twisting. His jaw from clenching.

But as the evening went on, his fears were alleviated. Prompto made no move to imply they should meet up, or maybe even get an apartment together. To spend time together in Tokyo. To reconnect after the exchange program.

And maybe this meant Prompto didn’t like him as much as he made it seem. Maybe it meant the closeness they had come to share was an artificial creation of the room they shared. Or maybe, just maybe, Ignis was just reading too far into all of this.

He hoped it was the latter.

⇋

Glancing at his phone, Prompto groaned. “Dude, we need to sleep. It’s three in the morning.”

Ignis blinked. “Is it?”

Pale hands rubbed at red eyes. “Damn, I’m tired. Can’t believe I didn’t notice. Time for _bed_.” He promptly got to his feet and walked into the kitchen.

“Your bed is that way,” Ignis pointed out dryly, motioning to his left.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just making some ramen.”

“... You’re hungry.”

“That’s why I’m in the kitchen, yeah.” The microwave beeped as he set the time. “Do you want some?”

It tasted like salt and limp soba.

Ignis didn’t like it.

⇋

The next day, at the grocery store, Ignis saw the price tag on ramen and bought two dozen packets.

“I thought you hated that,” Prompto noted.

“I am determined to make it edible.”

“Huh. Do yourself a favor and add egg. Oh, and Ignis?”

“Yes?”

“Welcome to college.”

⇋

Ignis was doodling in the margins of his notebook when Prompto passed him a sheet of paper.

_Joint paper coming up. I’ll be your partner._

_You are doing me a great service_ , Ignis wrote back. He paused, adding a small “bow” between some stars before handing it back.

_So formal!_ was the response, paired with several exclamation marks and a drawing of a suit.

He fired back a, _Your handwriting is better than mine._

The smile on Prompto’s face when he saw this warmed his chest unexpectedly.

⇋

It was later that night that a large bottle settled onto the counter.

Glancing up from his computer, Ignis’ eyebrows screwed up as he asked, “What’s that?”

“Rum,” Prompto replied gleefully. “Since this paper-project thing looks like it’s going to be a doozy, I figured we could use some positive reinforcement.”

“I was under the impression that you were under twenty-one. Where’d you manage to get an entire bottle of rum?”

“Neighbors. Now, if we finish this paper early, I vote that this weekend we rent a movie and get totally shitfaced.”

Ignis blinked at this, then quickly glanced through the calendar in his phone. Dropping the device to his bed, he leaned back on his hands with a sigh. “I don’t see why not.”

They finished the paper by ten.

Collapsing into their respective beds, they each breathed long, tired sighs into the silent dorm. “I’m never working on a paper that long again.”

“Agreed.”

“Wanna watch something?”

“I’d like to sleep, honestly.”

Prompto’s head turned, eyes shifting to the ceiling. “Fair.”

A silence settled between them until Ignis offered a low, “It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

“Is it?”

“Let’s get up early. Make some snowmen.”

Prompto’s smile could have lit up the room. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

⇋

The room was flooded with light. It streamed through the curtains, uncaring of the roadblock, and filled each nook and cranny of the room. The kitchen was difficult to look at. The walls seemed to glow.

When Ignis shoved his glasses on his nose, though, all he could see was Prompto twisted in his blankets, skin luminescent in the morning sun. His breath was deep and even, chest rising steadily in the brisk morning air. Blond eyelashes fluttered, then rose, only to snap shut.

Then Prompto groaned and shifted. “Five more minutes. Close the curtains.”

“They’re closed,” was the dull reply, gaze fixed on the slope of the younger man’s back. After a moment, he brought himself to tear his eyes from the sight and peel back a curtain to squint outside. “Looks like it snowed.”

Prompto was up in an instant, pulling on as many layers as he could reach.

They built four snowmen before Ignis let it slip that it was his twenty-third birthday.

“Oh, wow,” Prompto drawled. “So _kind_ of you to give me warning.”

“It isn’t a big deal.”

“In _Japan_ it isn’t a big deal. Welcome to America, man. We are getting you a cake. We are going _out_ to eat. I’m getting you an overpriced Starbucks. Okay? When in Rome. Let me do this, man.”

⇋

Dinner was at a little hole in the wall restaurant near campus and left Ignis vomiting long into the next day.

Prompto came back with notes, a slip from Sania, and ginger tea. His hands were cold as he ran them up the length of a shivered back. “That’s it. Let it all out.”

Ignis groaned as he coughed one last time into the bowl before leaning back against the bathtub. His hand flailed blindly at his side, generally reaching for the tea.

Hands passed it over and a smart mouth offered a light, “It’s like I’m your wife.”

A laugh met the words. Bitter. Amused.

Cold fingers carefully worked their way into stiff shoulders. “Mr. Prompto Kagaku. Thoughts?”

Lips pursed.

Hands retreated.

_Prompto Scientia_. Now there was a thought.

Green eyes shifted, following his roommate as pale fingers twisted in a towel and brought it close.

“You’ve got some puke on your chin,” Prompto commented lowly, wiping at it.

Ignis gripped the mug of ginger tea firmly. “My thanks,” he managed through the cloth.

“No problem. You should drink that. It’ll help your stomach.”

His grip grew tighter. “Tea… hasn’t been working.”

The cloth drew back. Prompto’s expression twisted. “Think you’re up for some Napalm?”

Ignis frowned. “What’s napalm? I’ll give it a try.”

A sheepish grin followed, then Prompto left. Within minutes he was back, carrying a red solo cup. “Drink up,” he insisted, pushing it into Ignis’ hands. “You don’t want that to touch your tongue. Trust me.”

There was a momentary pause to set down the ginger tea, followed immediately by Ignis throwing it back without hesitation, swallowing harsh, sharp alcohol in two swift gulps before gagging into the toilet.

Blue eyes went wide at the sight. “Wow.”

Another cough. “‘Wow’ what?”

“Just… You must really trust me.”

“Of course I trust you,” he fired back dryly. “Why wouldn’t I trust you?” Reaching for the counter, he took a hand towel and pressed it to his lips. He dragged it against his face after, wiping away a good few layers of sweat before allowing it to drop to his lap. In the pit of his stomach there came a sharp burn as he leaned back against the bathtub. “What was that? Vodka?”

“Vodka,” Prompto agreed breathily. “Coconut flavor. There’s no actual coconut – I checked. I know you’re allergic. But…”

“But?” Ignis prompted as his roommate fell silent.

Blue eyes turned away. “Nothing,” he murmured. “It’s nothing. That, uh, should kill a good deal of the stuff wreaking havoc in your stomach. Give it a few minutes, then drink some water. That’s what I do whenever I eat something bad.”

“Why don’t you just go to the hospital?”

“Why don’t _you_?” Prompto fired back.

He remained silent, unable to answer. Watched, helpless, as his roommate stormed out of the bathroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts and quickly fading nausea.

He had hit a nerve.

The alcohol hit all at once, ten minutes later.

⇋

At an unknown time that night, Ignis woke to cold hands drawing a thick comforter up over him. To a soft pat. His eyes wouldn’t open, too heavy, and for a moment he considered thanking Prompto. But as a hand settled in his hair, carding through the strands, he could only freeze as butterflies swarmed his stomach.

The touch was gentle. Affectionate. It traced from his ear to his bangs, then back along his scalp.

Like a lover’s affectionate caress.

Then the touch was gone.

Ignis couldn’t sleep after that.

⇋

That Friday, after Prompto turned in the paper, he offered his coiled hand and demanded an enthusiastic, “Fist bump!”

Ignis rolled his eyes but complied.

“So. Drinks tonight? Or do you want to work on your thesis?”

“Drinks,” came the immediate reply, surprising them both. “If I have to look at that video one more minute I’m going to scream.”

Lips pursed. “I thought it was going so well, though.”

A hum. “I’m floundering, to be honest.”

“Floundering?”

“My head’s… full.”

“Of what?”

“Things.” He motioned vaguely. “Stuff.”

Prompto laughed. “Well, let’s see if we can empty out that attic space tonight.”

⇋

The moment they got back to the dorm, Prompto whipped out the rum, some solo cups, and a two-liter of cola. “Ready to get your drink on, my friend?” he said playfully.

Ignis offered a shrug in reply, hopping up to sit on the counter as Prompto had done time and time again. He watched as his roommate poured the first drink – a third of a glass of rum drowned by cola up to the brim. “What will we be watching?”

“The Fifth Element. Action. Adventure. Romance. Bruce Willis. Opera. Everything you could want packed into one big experience.”

“Is it your favorite movie?”

“Nah, man. The Princess Bride has that title. But it’s close. Not gonna lie.”

⇋

Ignis started having issues concentrating after the third glass. He faded in and out of the movie as less and less coke was added to each of his glasses until he was sipping straight rum by the fourth cup. At some point the movie ended, replaced by a candle burning on the side table that Ignis stared at with eyes crossed.

“Are we friends?” Prompto slurred at some point, draped over Ignis’ stomach with his legs hanging off the bed.

Green eyes shifted until their gazes met. “What brings this up?” he asked, masking his own curiosity.

Prompto blinked. “You’re awake?”

A bright, amused laugh was the reply.

“You’re _drunk_.”

“Why do you want to know if we’re friends?”

A shrug. A sigh. “I’ve never been that good at making them, so it’s hard for me to tell, I guess? Every time I get close, my insecurities take over and I just… start pushing them away.”

Ignis hissed out a low breath. “I may not be the best person to talk to about this, then.”

“Why not?”

“I only have two friends.”

Blond eyebrowed arched in surprised.

“I might…” Ignis cleared his throat. “I might not have any, now.”

“What happened?”

“I messed up,” he admitted, voice breaking. “I messed up and they’re done with me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. They told me.”

For a long time, as breaths grew heavy in the air and a pervasive silence reigned, Prompto just stared. “What,” he began after a long while, tone skeptical, “did you do?”

Ignis didn’t answer at first; held the words between his teeth until even breathing was difficult. “We’ve been friends for years,” he started weakly. “One of them has carried a torch for me as far as we go back. But he’d never acted on it. Never pushed. He’s a good man.”

Blue eyes remained fixed on him throughout the words, never wavering. Unblinking.

“I was in a bad place, not that it’s an excuse. I wanted something to happen, but I wasn’t sure what that was. So, in my lack of direction, I started to smoke weed with Gladio on the weekends. Then after classes. Then, sometimes, before classes.”

“Gladio is?”

“The friend.”

“Ah. Cool name.”

Ignis licked his lips. “It’s, ah, a nickname.”

“Like Iggy?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

“So I… started to smoke weed with Gladio. At one point, in the peak of our high, he threw an arm over my shoulder as a joke. And I… I leaned into him.”

Prompto rolled off Ignis to set against the wall, legs bunching up in front of his chest as the words hit the air. “I’m not going to like where this is going, am I?”

“You aren’t,” came the honest deadpan. Ignis’ gaze shifted, moving from Prompto to the ceiling. “I kept going over. He kept giving me weed. Before long we started to cuddle.

“I would stroke his hair. His chest. We’d hold hands and eat food and laugh. I thought it was what I wanted. But really it helped pass the time.”

Pale hands came up as a flash of panic drew over Prompto’s face. “You know, I’d just like to put in real quick that the friend zone is a myth and, like, the idea of ‘leading someone on’ walks a fine line involving that sort of rhetoric, but this is sounding pretty _messed up_.”

Ignis continued anyway. “After a few weeks of this, he kissed me. I called him a desperate slut and stormed out.”

Prompto was utterly silent at this.

For a long time there were no words; just gazes locked on the ceiling and wall until a sharp hiss broke the air.

“What… the _fuck_?”

Ignis shifted nervously. “Well, yes. It wasn’t the best course of action.”

“The… The _best_ ? I’ll _fucking say_ . Why did you… Why did you _do_ that?” he snapped, livid.

Ignis didn’t answer immediately. He gave it a good long think instead, mussing his hair with a hand before he dared open his mouth. “I was desperate,” he settled on after a while. “By the time I realized what I was getting, it was too late to go back.

“I wanted to escape blame, so I turned it around on him. Made him out to be this storybook villain. Even in my own head. I don’t think I could see anything all that clearly near the end. Up was down and left was right around the time I left for the exchange program.”

No one said anything for a long time after that, but it didn’t escape Ignis’ attention that Prompto’s legs had bunched in until they were no longer brushing his side. There was a good few centimeters of space between them; a sharp juxtaposition to the way their stomachs had been molded against each other minutes prior. And that intent, that desire not to touch him, was what hurt more than the loss of contact.

“Do you regret it?” The words came several minutes later; a bitter afterthought half desperate for the _right_ response.

Ignis’ eyes flicked from the ceiling to meet with icy blue. Slowly, he nodded. “I didn’t before I left for the program, but now I feel as if it’s eating up my insides.”

“Good.”

“Do you think I’m a horrible person?”

At first there came no reply. Only a long, stressed breath that eased through the air like a countdown. And when that countdown ended, it came. “I barely know you, man. A month ago I thought you were the shit. Now? I don’t know.

“The you from a few months ago might have been a dick. It’s hard to equivocate the guy who builds snowmen with me and doesn’t blame me when I take him out and he gets food poisoning with this asshole who actively broke his friend’s heart because it was… what? Inconvenient? I didn't know you, then. I’m glad I didn’t. The you right now?” He sighed again. “I don’t know.”

“You’re a good man,” Ignis announced softly as the silence settled between them. “You make it plain.”

Prompto laughed, a flush rising in his cheeks. “Man, if you could see the stuff flying around my head, you wouldn’t think that.”

“But I can’t.”

A blink. Blond hair shifted to the side.

“I don’t know the person in your head,” Ignis expanded, voice soft. “I only know the person you present.”

Pink lips split in a warm grin. “Does that make _you_ a good guy?”

He shook his head, expression grim. “No. It makes me the worst.”

Despite this, Prompto uncoiled from the wall and plopped himself back down over Ignis’ body. “Man, you’re a good person to doggy-pile. All your bones are in the right spots. No wonder Gladio likes you.”

The laugh that sounded then was a bitter one.

“You make me feel like I’m useful.”

It was Ignis’ turn to blink. “Prompto, you’re brilliant.”

“I don’t feel like it,” he replied, voice soft. “No matter how good things are going for me, there’s always this… niggling doubt in the forefront of my mind that I’m going to fuck it all up, you know?”

Reaching down to pat the shoulder digging into his chest, Ignis paused.

“Something wrong?”

“Get up,” Ignis demanded firmly, expression green. Prompto was barely off him before he staggered to his feet, half limping to the bathroom before falling to his knees and bursting at the toilet, vomit spewing into the bowl.

In seconds Prompto was there, holding his bangs. “It’s okay, man. It’s okay. Just let it all out. You’re going to be fine,” he said, fingers tracing circles into shoulders that shook.

Ignis started crying before long, sobbing into the toilet. “I fucked up,” he gasped until he could hardly breathe. “I fucked up.”

Prompto held him through the meltdown, hands soft and arms firm.

 

# Part Four: March

 

March first, a Wednesday, dawned with a dim overcast sky and Prompto staggering out of bed to vomit.

“You need to drink less often,” Ignis called as he went, sleepily amused, before climbing out of bed himself. He pulled on some socks before padding into the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee and cracking some eggs in a pan that he’d heavily greased.

Stumbling out of the bathroom with his toothbrush hanging from his teeth, Prompto groaned. “Please tell me you’re making me breakfast, too.”

“As sure as you climbed into my bed last night,” he shot back dryly.

A groan followed. “Sorry, man. God, I was... You saw how trashed I was. You were there.”

“I was. And you were clingier than usual.”

“Frat booze, man. What can I say? Cheap beer and bad music are great when you’re having a meltdown.”

“Are the hangovers worth it?”

“Uhg…” He moaned, hopping up to sit on the counter. “No.”

Ignis laughed, low and amused, then flipped the eggs. “Would you like the first batch?”

Prompto’s hands drew out from his sides, making grabbing hands at the air. “Gimme.”

“Get rid of that toothbrush and I’ll grab you a plate.”

“Yes, darling.”

Ignis grinned as his roommate hopped down from the counter. “Have I been promoted to ‘darling’ now?”

“Yes,” was the glib reply as Prompto stalked to the bathroom.

Turning back to the eggs, Ignis flipped them onto a plate, then proceeded to drown them in ketchup and set them on the counter.

It wasn’t long before Prompto returned, cheering a quiet, “Ketchup!” before he flopped bodily onto the counter, placed the plate before his face, and slowly began to eat by tugging the eggs bit by bit into his mouth with his tongue.

“Would you like a fork?”

The “no” murmured around a mouthful of ketchup was firm, if hardly audible.

Ignis watched this for a while before he rolled his eyes and grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer. Sliding the plate away from his roommate, he ignored the scandalized “Hey!” that broke the air. Then, dipping the spoon into the mess underneath the ketchup, he offered the spoon to Prompto with a low, “I don’t want to have to clean the counter.”

“Of course,” Prompto said with a wink that sent tingles up Ignis’ spine.

⇋

“Grab an onion.”

“Okay.”

“That’s not an onion.”

“It isn’t?”

“I mean… Yes, it’s an onion. But it’s not an _American_ onion. Or, you know, what _Americans_ think of as standard American onions.”

“Prompto, just describe it.”

“White ball between the red balls and the orange balls.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you_.”

Prompto was comparing potatoes.

The supermarket was nearly barren as it was a solid 10:30 in the evening. Prompto was done up in a leather jacket and as many studs as he could jam into his shirt without compromising the structural integrity.

“We’re going to need a white onion if we’re going to complete this endeavor.”

“Do you know how to pick potatoes?” Ignis asked after a while.

Prompto put the potatoes down and grabbed a five pound bag instead. “No clue.”

⇋

Ignis waved at his eyes, panicked, as they began to water. “Prompto,” he called, voice shaking. “Prompto, I believe I’m having an allergic reaction.”

Cold hands were on him in an instant, wheeling him away from the counter. “Is anything swelling? Can you breathe? What’s going on?”

“My eyes. They’re watering.”

A moment passed. A long, tense moment eventually shattered by a low, “Ignis, you’re cutting an onion.”

“And?”

“And… that’s what happens when you cut onions.”

Ignis made a face as a tear slid down his cheek, reaching idly up to wipe it away, only to be stopped by a hand on his.

“No no no!” Prompto insisted sharply. “Don’t touch your eyes.”

“Is it toxic?”

A groan sounded between them as pale fingers drew away to dig through blond hair. “No. No, it’s not that. It’s not toxic, but you don’t want it in your eyes, okay? It’ll burn.” Grabbing up a towel from the counter, he motioned for Ignis’ glasses. “May I?”

He bent forward, curious. Remained still as his glasses were removed. As a cloth was pressed to his cheek. Then, despite himself, leaned into the sensation. Into the hand on his face. The pressure of the cloth.

Into Prompto.

And then the cloth was gone, Prompto was gone, and his glasses were back.

“See?” he offered softly. “Good as new.”

Eyebrows arched at that.

Pale hands motioned to the blender. “So, I can’t figure this out. You want to trade?”

“I can’t work it either,” Ignis admitted softly, “but I can chop them manually while you take the onion.”

“Okay. Cool. Just… don’t touch your eyes.”

He touched his eye thirty seconds in.

It was _fire_.

Ignis staggered toward the sink, fumbling for the faucet, but in seconds Prompto was on him, shouting a sharp, “No, water will make it worse!”

“What do I do?!” he shouted back.

“Bend over the sink. I’ll… I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

Prostrating himself across the sink, Ignis waited in tortured agony as the sound of hands jostling through the fridge rang through the small dorm. It felt like part of his eye was peeling off. But then he saw Prompto. Saw him lifting the carton of milk before his face…

… and then poured it directly in his eye.

It was one of the most strange, disgusting, relaxing, soothing, cathartic moments of his life.

When the milk was half gone – when Prompto began to panic with a dull, “Wait, are you allergic to milk?” – Ignis breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m lactose intolerant, not allergic.”

“Oh, thank _fuck_. Jeez, man…” Blowing a long, anxious raspberry, he managed a low, scolding, “You gotta be careful.”

A lip twitched. “Why? You always seem to come to my rescue.”

Prompto laughed. Slapping his chest in a show of humor, he cheered a low, “What can I say? I’m a hero!”

Reaching for a towel, Ignis pressed it to his cheek with a soft, warm, “My hero.”

For a moment, Prompto’s smile faltered. The apples of his cheeks grew warm, and his lips pursed before he gave a firm nod and turned back to the onions. “Let’s uh… Let’s get this finished before we forget.”

Wrapping the towel around his neck, Ignis washed his hands and spared a grin before turning back to the vegetables. Grabbing a pan, he carefully scooped them into it with the knife before turning to Prompto. “Where did you put that turmeric we got?”

“I’ll get it. Wanna put that on the stove and cut the chicken? You’re better with a knife than I am.”

Ignis nodded. Settling the pan on the stove, he reached for the fridge door just as Prompto left the kitchen. Reaching in, he grabbed at the small styrofoam package before shutting the door. Dropping it on the counter, he unwrapped the plastic before staring down at the raw meat.

_Raw meat_.

Sometimes the past seemed so… foreign.

Reaching for the knife, he attempted to recall how the people in the video had done it. Was it a vertical slice? Where was the bone? What was he doing?

Prompto came back and he made a haphazard slice in the chicken.

“How’s it coming?”

“Good,” he lied smoothly.

Prompto sprinkled turmeric in the pan as he continued to pretend to know what he was doing.

Then the onions went in. Eventually, the pan was taken off the stove and offered to Ignis. “Toss ‘em in,” Prompto insisted.

Ignis grabbed them and attempted not to squirm at the texture as he pressed them into the pan.

It took a while of stirring before they added stock and milk before allowing it to simmer. Prompto leaned against the counter after starting a timer for the rice on his phone. “Man,” he half moaned, taking a heavy whiff of the air, “I can’t wait to try this.”

Ignis laughed, joining him against the counter with a slightly smile.

Blond eyebrows arched as he suggested, “Hey, how about some games while we wait?”

A shrug was his answer at first, followed by a dry, “Sure.”

⇋

They were ten minutes into Ignis having his ass handed to him on screen before Prompto suggested, “How about we play on the same team and just go up against some CPUs?”

“That would be nice,” he admitted.

Prompto made a face at this. “Just admit you don’t want to lose any more.”

“Winning would be nice.”

He laughed, ended the match, and set up a team battle.

Ignis died first.

Prompto set up another match.

Ignis died first, again.

It was a little while before Prompto’s timer went off on his phone. Before Ignis realized they had gravitated toward each other on the carpet until their sides were nearly flush. Until their legs were bare inches from each other before his roommate shot to his feet.

“Food time,” he squeaked, entirely too loud.

Ignis’ lips pursed, but he made no comment. Instead, he settled with rising to his feet, wincing at the cheap carpet between his toes.

He forgot the sting of losing the moment Prompto took the first bite of curry.

“Holy fuck, this is good,” he sighed, leaning up against the counter. “I don’t think I can go back to ramen after this.”

Ignis didn’t think he could, either.

Glancing up from his dish, Prompto motioned to Ignis’ untouched bowl with his chopsticks. “Go on. Take a bite!”

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he fired back lowly before priming his own chopsticks and grabbing at a bit of rice. Dipping it carefully in the sauce, he took a quick bite, enjoying the flavor. It was almost as good as the food he was used to. He could feel the grin budding in his cheeks even before it spread across his face, eyes lighting. He flinched as a finger prodded his cheek. “What is it?”

“You’re doing that thing again?”

“What thing?”

“Smiling.”

The smile dropped.

Prompto waved with his chopsticks, shaking his head. “It’s not a bad thing,” he insisted suddenly. “I just… Every time you smile, I feel like I’m watching something private.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?”

“It’s… rare?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, like…” He groaned, settling his plate on the counter before leaning against it, breathing a sigh. “I haven’t been to Japan, but I’ve heard you guys aren’t big on emoting? Like, that’s what your entire culture is based around. It’s like guys here in America, really. Just… don’t show emotion.”

Ignis blinked, then took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I must admit, I’ve never thought about it much before.”

⇋

It was only a bare few hours later that Ignis was on his bed reading and Prompto came through the front door, dropping his bag to the floor. There was a moment of hesitation as he glanced over at Ignis. The pause was a short one, and within seconds he was striding into the living area, hovering above his bedside. “Can I lay on you?” he asked.

Ignis shrugged, moving his book and arms out of the way.

Crawling onto the bed, Prompto flopped bodily across his roommate with a beleaguered sigh. Digging his phone out of his back pocket, he tapped through the internet program until a wall of text filled the page.

And they sat.

And sat.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier,” Ignis said after Prompto had shifted, then collapsed back on his stomach.

“What did I say earlier?” The words were yawned; a sleepy question that earned a soft smile.

“Emoting.”

“What about it?”

Lips pursed. Legs shifted. Slowly, Ignis admitted, “My friends are far more animated than I am.”

A hum met his words. “Are you saying you’re boring?”

Settling his book against the narrow expanse of back before him, Ignis breathed a sigh. “It’s not that,” he began, voice soft. Hesitant. “It’s more that… the more time I spend with you, the more I realize what a selfish ass I am.”

Prompto blinked at this, shifting just enough so he could look at the man he was laying on. “Wait, hold up. Didn’t we have this conversation a few weeks ago?”

A single eyebrow quirked. “Did we?”

“Yeah, man,” he drawled. “Remember? We finished that paper and I got you _really drunk_.” Shifting up, he slid his arms beneath his chin, dropping his phone to the bed. “Man. It was a night to remember. The candles were a nice touch.”

A moment passed before realization dawned across Ignis’ face; before he shifted uneasily against the bed and managed a low, “I remember.”

“You were _sloshed_.”

“I was.”

“So, you know… have you thought about how you’re going to apologize, yet?” His voice was soft. Hesitant. “To your friend. You know – if they still want to be your friend when you get back.”

Turning slightly, Ignis gave his roommate a playful push.

“Hey, I’m _serious_ . Look, You… You played with his feelings, _used_ him to pass the time, and then called him a desperate slut when he fell for it. Even I wouldn't want to be your friend after that.”

“I know.”

For a short moment, there was silence. “Well?” Prompto asked. “How are you going to apologize?”

Another silence settled between them. One broken by a solitary, even, almost callous, “I’m not.”

“Uh, why not?” Prompto griped sharply. “You _do_ still want to be his friend, right?”

“He won’t take me back, Prompto.”

“Why not?”

“He’s smarter than that.”

Prompto blew a raspberry. “Man, you’ve been friends with this guy for years. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be your friend in the first place if he were smarter than that.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then what? Are you afraid that you’re going to make the same mistake again? That history repeats itself? You’ve changed. It’s not going to happen.”

“I haven’t changed,” Ignis insisted dryly.

Lips pursed at this. Pale eyebrows furrowed sharply. Then, as his face turned away, baring his expression only to the wall, Prompto asked, “So you’re exactly the same now as you were then?”

“It seems that way.”

“Then… what?”

Ignis almost jumped at the break in Prompto’s voice. His jaw fell softly open, expression twisting into something between alarmed and unsure. “Prompto?”

No answer.

“Prompto, look at me.”

At first the answer was a long, uneasy breath. But as fingers fell across a pale cheek the air grew still between them. The hands were gentle; warm. Prompto followed their touch; allowed them to guide his face until his gaze met with green.

“What are you saying?”

“Am I just like Gladio to you? Someone to pass the time?”

Ignis tried to ignore the hot anxiety that suddenly built in his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Am I just someone you’re using to pass the time between classes?” he accused, eyes sharp, jaw tight. “We eat together, play video games, flirt a little – we even goddamn _cuddle_ . If you haven’t changed, then am I just some _plaything_ to you? Some _toy_ -”

“No. It’s not that-”

“Did you lie to him, too?”

“I’m not _lying_ to you.”

“Then what _is_ it?” he hissed. “What is it, Ignis?” he asked again. “What is it that makes you spend time with me and cook with me and…” His voice cut out, growing silent as a single thumb pressed into the corner of his mouth, dragging along his bottom lip until it drew to a pause in the center.

The fingers hooked beneath a chin.

The fingers brought him forward.

Prompto followed in a daze, eyes glazing over as his lips fell still in anticipation.

“Is this alright?” Ignis asked, voice deceptively even as his chest leaped.

“We’re leaving in two months,” came the whispered reply. “No, this is not alright.”

The fingers dropped.

Prompto got up.

Ignis turned away, eyes fixed on the wall.

What was he doing?

Prompto was as good as dead.

⇋

Three weeks passed before they spoke again. Before Prompto stepped into the dorm room, walked in slow motion to where Ignis sat on his bed,  and presented a peace in the form of, “Hey, I was invited to a frat party. Wanna come?”

It took Ignis a long time to look up. For him to meet blue eyes with his own without flinching. “Frat party?” he asks after he managed to breathe through the tense silence.

“Yeah,” Prompto answered all too quickly. “Cheap booze. Bad music. White people. You know – like those movies in cheap theaters.”

He held back a sharp, “I know what they are,” pinching it between his teeth. Prompto’s words from weeks before rang in his head like a record. _“Frat booze, man. What can I say? Cheap beer and bad music are great when you’re having a meltdown.”_ He shrugged, then offered a low, "I don't see why not."

⇋

He could see why not.

The music was loud; as loud as it had been at the concert Prompto had taken him to. It was seconds before he was handed the familiar pair of headphones, slipping them on without complaint.

Cramped and reeking of alcohol, the house was relatively clean, apart from the partygoers’ seemingly constant rampage. A bit of vomit was quickly chased by what appeared to be a freshman in a maid outfit.

“Greeks, man,” Prompto shouted over the music before diving into the mess of bodies.

“Greeks,” Ignis agreed over the music, not quite understanding the sentiment. He was a quarter Greek, after all.

“Watch your phone. I’m going to go get us some drinks.”

Ignis nodded weakly, edging closer to a batch of chairs by the wall as Prompto disappeared into the crowd.

A song came over the speakers; nothing familiar, but a few lines into it Ignis began to understand the words.

“SGT Frog!” someone on the dance floor shouted.

Ignis began to wonder how he’d picked up the word “frog.”

Through the gaps in the crowd he could make out two people dancing. Dark hair beneath a bright hat, arms flying into the air as her hips snapped back and forth, Sania danced to something that both was and wasn’t the beat. Before her was an older woman; her long black hair tied back in a bun almost too formal for the event. Bright red lipstick clung to her lips and her dance partner as they drew in close, peppering kisses and low whispers before returning to their somewhat intoxicated but still elegant flailing.

Then Prompto was back, armed with solo cups and a wide grin. “They got a decent keg,” he noted warmly. “I think it’s a microbrew.”

Ignis reached for the glass not held flush to his roommate’s body. Taking a hesitant sip, he breathed a sigh of relief as the urge to spit it immediately out never came. “It’s decent,” he agreed after swallowing it down.

Half an hour later – half an hour of lurking at the edges of the room and watching people dance, making no moves of their own to join the throng – Prompto leaned over and asked, “Think there’s a bathroom around here?”

“Haven’t you been here before?” Ignis shouted over the suddenly blaring bass.

“Not this house, no.”

They traipsed around the first floor, only finding long lines for the two near the kitchen.

“Second story?” Ignis suggested dryly.

Prompto groaned. “Sure, but we’re gonna hear some weird stuff up there.”

“Weird?”

“Dude, you’ll find out.” he laughed, hand rising to muss his hair.

They beelined through the crowd toward the stairs, passing through where they could. When they finally made it to the landing Prompto took two steps at a time, hand light against the railing.

Ignis followed at a far more sedate pace. When he finally cleared the flight he half expected to see Prompto doing the “I have to pee” dance outside some random room. Instead, he just managed to catch the tail end of his baby-barf green jacket disappearing behind a door. “Guess he found the bathroom,” he murmured lightly. Nursing his drink, he took up residence outside the room with a long sigh.

Then… it started.

A low, pleasured moan.

A feminine giggle.

Smacks of lips. The slap of flesh.

_“Fuck,”_ one of them groaned. “ _Fucking… Ah!”_

Ignis fought back the urge to bolt, and might have when a high, uncomfortable, “Let’s go back to the party, shall we?” burst through the air like a needle in a balloon as Prompto stepped out of the bathroom.

The moment they got to the bottom of the stairs, a girl from their history class appeared as if by teleportation. Twirling a lock of her medium-length curly hair around one perfectly manicured finger, she popped her hip and waved a single ball before Prompto’s eyes.

They were quite a bit into this conversation before Prompto turned to Ignis and asked, “Mind if I play beer pong for a bit?”

“Do what you like,” Ignis fired back bitterly.

Prompto’s expression twisted. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I’ll be getting another drink,” he segued dryly, then stepped away. In an instant anxiety began to bite at his stomach. It churned and burned until he washed it away with a strong microbrew.

He went out onto the back porch after a while. Admired the candles that had been lit about the space in glass mason jars. It would have been peaceful if it weren’t for the whispers and gasps of young lovers sucking face.

He downed his seventh glass of beer to the sound of drunken hands wandering, drowning out the insistent buzz of his phone against his chest.

It was a long while before he went back inside. He found a heater quickly, warming his hands against the warm stream of air before Prompto appeared at his side, smelling of sweat and alcohol.

“Where’ve you been? I called you like three times,” he slurred softly, eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Ignis blinked, coming back to himself. When…

Why were they holding hands?

Had Prompto grabbed his?

“Back porch,” was his eventual reply. “Sorry. I didn’t hear it ring.”

Prompto’s hands were soft.

Warm. At least comparatively.

They fit together like a puzzle.

The urge to lean forward – to press his lips to Prompto’s – hit him like a brick through a window, even as he began to fade in and out. There was a kitchen. Some weed. A joint held expertly between his lips on the front porch as Prompto translated a joke for him. A laugh, full and lovely.

Prompto’s.

Ignis began to think that maybe frat parties weren’t so bad until some girls cornered them near the restrooms on the first floor. They talked and talked and then…

Everyone was staring at Ignis.

“What’s going on?” he asked, unsure.

“They want to know if you’re up for a foursome,” Prompto said, entirely too happy with this.

A blink. A shocked, “Pardon me?”

“They want to know what you think,” Prompto continued, as if it were normal. His breath reeked of weed and booze, and his face was flushed. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Ignis took a quick drink of his beer before he dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, looked Prompto dead in the eye, and snapped, “You can sleep with them yourself if you’re so eager.” And with that he strode away into the kitchen. His glass was half full again before Prompto’s hand fell over his.

The girls were nowhere to be seen.

“I’m sorry,” were the first words out of perky, alcohol flushed lips. “I didn’t think. Of course that would make you uncomfortable. I’ve just never had an offer like that. I didn’t know what to think.”

“You were thinking,” Ignis began, gaze fixed on the stoppered keg before him, “that if the offer for sex came from someone else, you might be able to get into my pants.”

Bafflement. Utter, complete bafflement. “What the _fuck_?”

“Do you know those girls?” he continued bitterly. “Or did you meet them during your round of beer pong?”

“Dude, just _shut up_ ,” Prompto spat. “I didn’t plan this.”

“Didn’t you?” Ignis drawled, shaking off the hand on his to continue filling his cup.

Prompto watched, alarmed. “Iggy, how drunk are you?”

“I’m not drunk,” he slurred unconvincingly.

“That’s, what, the fifth glass I’ve seen you with? God knows how much you drank while we were separated.”

“You’re the one who did beer pong.”

“And won, thanks. You would have known I _destroyed_ them if you had stuck around to cheer me on. But you disappeared instead. And now here you are, crossfaded as _shit_ and insisting you aren’t drunk.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Ignis argued sharply.

Things faded out again after that. He remembered someone in a letterman jacket. A bag of ice. Vomiting, briefly. Prompto’s cold hands holding back his bangs. Then he was alone in a bedroom with Prompto, head hurting, a used condom tied off next to his foot.

“Sit down before you pass out,” Prompto hissed.

“Don’t treat me like a child.”

“Okay. Then stop throwing a goddamn tantrum and sit down.”

There was a moment that followed for Ignis. One that, in all his drunken glory, he realized that the minutes to follow were important. Far more important than his ego. And so he complied. He sat on the bed. Ignored the strewn sheets and stiff air.

“Look,” Prompto began, voice growing gentle and hesitant. “I know it’s been rocky between us these last few weeks, but like… Do I really strike you as some shallow idiot who would stoop to using other people to get in your pants?”

It took Ignis far too long to answer. Far too long to hear those words, evaluate them, and _think_. About Prompto. About himself. The small but firm, “No,” that broke the air could hardly be heard over the pulse of bass beneath their feet.

Blue eyes narrowed. “Then what the _fuck_ was that?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly. “I blacked out. I’m having some issues following this.”

“You _blacked out_ ?” Prompto gaped. “Well _that’s_ one hell of an excuse. How much have you been drinking?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted again. “I just…” He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. It felt like he was choking. “I just remember I was jealous-”

“Jealous?!” Prompto shouted.

Ignis flinched.

“What could you _possibly_ be jealous of?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to lose me as a fucking translator because some girls asked for a foursome.”

Ignis scoffed.

“What?”

“This has nothing to do with you being my translator,” he huffed, half amused. “Besides, I’m going to lose you, anyways. It’s inevitable.”

“Iggy-”

“I like you. A lot. But I can’t do this.”

“Iggy, this… I guess…” His breath was heavy. Stressed. “I guess this isn’t the time or place to talk about stuff like this.”

“Then where? When?” Ignis asked, voice low, gaze drawing up to meet with blue. “In the room where you never talk to me?”

“Oh, like you were _so_ eager to start a conversation.”

“We should just get this out, shouldn’t we?” Ignis snapped, jaw taut. “Here and now; let us get this from our systems. I’m not entirely sure where you stand in all this, to be perfectly honest. One moment you’re taking me to concerts, loaning me jewelry, and stealing my bedsheets; the next you’re avoiding me for nearly a month. Do you want me in your life or don’t you?”

“We can’t all be 100% consistent all the time,” Prompto groaned, gaze breaking away to turn to the floor. “Sometimes I think to myself, ‘Fuck it. I won’t get this chance again.’ Others it’s like…” He breathed a sigh, shoe scuffing against the carpet idly. “I get so hyper aware sometimes that this whole setup is temporary and that _you’ll_ be going back to Japan and _I’ll_ be going back to Kansas, and it feels like I’m going to have a _heart attack_ if I talk to you about it.”

Downstairs, the music cut out and a series of voices rose in complaint.

Prompto ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. “Looks like the party’s over.”

Ignis nodded, slow but sure. “Looks like it is.”

⇋

When they got back to their shared dorm room, Prompto made a comment about throwing up before retreating to the bathroom.

Ignis prepared himself for the hurls. Prepared for the sounds of heaving and coughing to fill the immeasurable future. But in place of enthusiastic vomiting came instead soft, muffled sobs that seeped beneath the bathroom door and hung in his ears like an accusation.

Ignis’ chest roiled. What was he doing? In a few days it would be April, signalling the final month of his exchange. Then he would be back in Japan and Prompto would have been dead for four hundred years.

With nothing better to do, he pulled out his thesis.

They avoided each others’ gazes when Prompto finally stepped from the bathroom, eyes red and raw from tears. But despite their gazes so determined to remain fixed on other things, they managed to speak.

“Hungry?”

“I could eat.”

# Part Five: April

 

The March for Science – the epitome of the reason Ignis went back in time – was on a Saturday on the twenty-second of April. Earth Day, Prompto informed him.

Ignis was frantic, motioning to everyone he could and asking Prompto to propose a series of questions for him. “This is a really weird list,” he’d commented at first. But as soon as they sat on the first bench they found after several hours of interviews, his tune changed.

The “weirdest” question was the state of the sidewalks in their neighborhood.

A woman with long black hair said her sidewalks were crumbling.

A man with a large nose said they were freshly swept and cared for.

A man with a short, thin mustache insisted there weren’t sidewalks at all. You had to walk on the side of the road and hope a car saw you.

“I didn’t expect to get that kind of response to that sort of question,” Prompto admitted when they reached the end of the footage. “I mean, to think sidewalks could point out affluence and preference of neighborhoods.”

They go about, taking new footage with new questions, only to end up bottlenecked in a street.

“What’s going on?” Ignis asked, craning to see over the crowd.

“They’re talking about a police barricade,” Prompto answered quickly. “That makes no sense. The papers for this march were filed and everything. Why are the police forming a barricade?”

Then the crowd surged.

Ignis flung his arm out, attempting to reach Prompto through the mass of bodies separating them.

A cold hand met his.

They made their way back through the crowd; away from the barricade. Prompto breathed heavily, bracing one hand against his knee.

They didn’t let go.

“Let’s get out of here,” Prompto insisted, glancing back at the crowd. “If the police are here… Thesis or not, we can’t get arrested.”

Ignis could only nod.

They boarded the bus back to campus, hands untwining only to pull out the fare. Then they were in the back, fingers tangled just a touch too tight.

Ignis couldn’t bring himself to let go. Couldn’t think of anything beyond the sweaty warmth between their palms.

⇋

The ride back was bumpy; the road flush with potholes and pedestrians. When they finally dismounted, Ignis couldn’t tell if he was nauseous from the ride or the seen of nervousness in his stomach.

Their hands remained tangled until they reached the dorm, where Prompto dug out his key, let them into the room, and promptly announced, “We’ve only got a week.” Then he turned.

Ignis’ heart stopped at the sight.

Face red, freckles standing stark against his cheeks, Prompto managed a wet, choked, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” came the soft admission. “But…” Despite himself, he reached against for the pale hand, taking it in his, suddenly unable to look the man in the eyes. “We’ve only got a week left.”

“Then we can hold out for a _goddamn_ week,” came the bitter snap, hand half tearing out of Ignis’ with a shake of the head. “We don’t need to make things any harder than they already are.”

Ignis couldn’t argue.

He couldn’t even open his mouth.

⇋

The room was a mess of clothes, boxes, and trash when Ignis put the final touches on his thesis. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the file in something akin to disbelief before announcing a shocked, “It’s done.”

“What is?” Prompto asked, chucking another shirt onto the pile labeled “donate” after giving it a bare minimum sniff test.

“No,” Ignis replied with a soft shake of his head. “I’ve finished my thesis.”

“Your thesis?”

“My thesis, yes.”

“Dude, I thought you were chatting with your family or something. We need to finish packing. You haven’t even _moved_ your textbooks. Aren’t you going to sell them?”

Ignis saved the file twice before closing his laptop. “I’ll be giving them to the library. American money will be useless to me in a few days, and I’ve managed to ration a bit of my stipend.”

Prompto rolled his eyes. “Come on, man. You’re being a bit too spartan about this. What about omiyage – souvenirs for your parents and friends?”

Lips pursed at this before he offered a weak, “I’ll be buying them at the airport.”

“You’re… kind of terrible at this sort of thing, aren’t you?” Prompto’s words were shocked. Almost appalled.

“No,” Ignis lied, immediately jumping to his own defense. “I scouted some gifts when I first arrived four months ago. I can easily find things for my parents, along with Noctis and Gladiolus.”

“Noctis?”

“My… other friend.”

“Another nickname.”

“Yes,” he lied again. “His name is Naota. You’d like him.”

“Would I?”

“Yes. He likes anime. And video games.”

“Is that an invitation?” Prompto’s voice was a bare whisper at best.

Ignis’ stomach dropped. “I- No.” It came out too sharp. Too fast.

Prompto’s expression soured. “You don’t have to be so rude about it,” he snapped. His gaze turned to the floor, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as he spat out a high, “Look, I know. This is impossible. It could never work. We were doomed from the start and whatever could happen between us is pointless. But you don’t… You can’t just dangle something like that in front of me and then rip it away without expecting me to react.”

“Prompto-”

“You know what? Forget it. _Fuck_ it. I’ll just pack while you’re out or something,” he murmured strongly under his breath, throwing down his books before he strode out the door.

Ignis was on his feet in an instant, heart racing even as the door slapped shut. Before he could blink he was across the room, yanking it open and stepping into the hall. “Prompto!” he called, a touch dramatic. But as the door closed behind him he fell abruptly to his knees, a frustrated shout working between his teeth as his fingers twitched where they had been sandwiched between the door and its frame.

Cool hands were on him in half a breath, a hissed, “Pay _attention_ , man!” hanging in the air. Prompto quickly reached for the knob, then pried long fingers from the jaws of the frame. His eyes were sharp as they turned on Ignis, paired with a firm, “Are you alright?”

The next few minutes passed in a haze as they raided the first aid kit beneath the bathroom sink. As two of Ignis’ fingers were bandaged. As Prompto was so close he could hardly breathe.

“You’ve broken two of your fingernails,” Prompto informed him dryly as he held a bag of frozen peas against the gauze. “That seems to be the worst of it, thank _god_.” He leaned back, collapsing sideways against the wall with a bitter sigh. “It’s going to be hard for you to pack with your nail split like that.” Then, face nudging up, he offered a light, “Do you want me to paint it for you?”

Ignis blinked. “Do I want you to what?”

“It strengthens the nail,” Came Prompto’s light reply. “If we disinfect it well enough I have this coating that’s specifically for broken nails. Helps it heal faster, too. That way you can get your stuff together in time without making it worse.”

“I… I suppose so.”

“Good,” Prompto muttered, then reached for the supplies that had been scattered across the linoleum floor. “We’ll do that when you stop bleeding.”

⇋

Prompto left for two hours before returning with a shopping bag. He hoisted it high in the air before gently proclaiming, “The nail fairy has arrived.”

A blink was the only response for a long time. “Nail fairy?” he quoted eventually.

“Yeah. You know.” Prompto slid the bag onto his elbow with a sigh. “Because I’m bi and gonna paint your nails?”

“I don’t get it.”

“Do you just, like, not leave your house or something?”

“... No.”

“... That explains a lot.” Plopping himself down on his own bed, Prompto reached into one of his packed bags and retrieved a small black glass bottle. “I’m just going to do this, okay? My clear is running low so that’ll be the protective layer. That okay?”

“Black’s fine,” Ignis replied lightly, glancing down at his bandaged hand before throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. “Should I come over there? Or will you be headed my way?”

“Stay where you are. Your bed has less shit on it,” came the deadpan answer. Prompto slowly pulled out item after item. A cloth; a small clear bottle with green text; a silver flashlight; a needle. “Do you want just the two nails painted or all of them?”

A shrug. “Will it look odd with just the two?”

“Yes.”

“Better to do all of them, in that case.”

Prompto laughed, then hopped up from his bed. “Okay, man. You’re going to want to be very still for this.”

“Alright.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Prompto mocked, voice high.

Ignis snorted.

Flopping onto the bed, Prompto slapped the rag onto a sharp knee and made a “gimme gimme” motion with his hands. “Gimme gimme,” he said.

Offering his hands, Ignis grinned as cold fingers wrapped around his, guiding him to the rag. He watched, amused, as Prompto began to pick at his cuticles with the butt of the needle. “Should I be worried?”

“I don’t have a cuticle pusher. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve got very steady hands.”

“I am aware.”

“Then don’t ask questions.”

Politely, Ignis clammed up. Instead, he quietly appreciated the light drag of fingers as they brushed and grabbed at his hands. As his nails were manicured one by one. As blue eyes focused on him and only him.

As he set about applying the final layer, Prompto bit his lip in concentration.

Ignis could have swooned.

“Don’t smile like that,” Prompto scolded when he finally glanced up. Then, clicking on the flashlight, he drew the blacklight across each individual nail until they were dry.

⇋

The last bag was packed. The final box, piled. Ignis looked about his kingdom, pleased to have finished a day early.

“You all done?” Prompto asked, peering up from his ramshackle hut like a meerkat.

“Yes,” Ignis replied with a slight refusal to look up.

“Cool. Let’s eat, then,” came the excited announcement. Leaping out between a small opening in his boxes, Prompto leaped into the kitchen, calling out a distracted, “You want the crackers and cheese or the Easy Mac with sriracha?”

Ignis perked at the mention of cheese, meandering between his boxes to step into the kitchen with a blank expression. “I think I’ll take the crackers,” he said, taking a seat on what bit of counter he could find. “Does the cheese still look alright?”

“Looks fine,” was the light reply as pale hands withdrew the small rounds of cheese from the refrigerator drawer. Turning, he offered one up, arm extended, with a high, “Open wide!”

Obediently, he dropped his jaw and closed his eyes.

For a long moment nothing happened. There was only the whistle of air against the windows. The hiss of breath in an otherwise empty room. The squeak of sneakers against cheap linoleum.

Lips.

Soft and gentle.

Tasting of cheese.

Ignis’ lashes fluttered as the pert mouth drew away from his. His gaze shot immediately to pink lips. To flustered cheeks and nervous eyes. “What-” was all he managed, twisted and unsure.

“I just… wanted to know what it was like,” Prompto whispered.

“Shouldn’t…” Clearing his throat roughly, he squeaked out a high, “Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?”

A nod. A slow, hesitant, “Maybe I should.”

Ignis slid from the countertop with a sigh. “If you’re just playing with me,” he began, fear thick in his voice, “I don’t… I can’t…”

“I’m not.”

“You’re… You’re not?”

“I’m not.”

“What changed your mind?”

It was a long time before Prompto answered. It was low and weak, hanging between them like a promise and a regret all at once. “I did.”

⇋

Ignis didn’t pay attention to the food. Didn’t acknowledge much beyond Prompto’s smiling, laughing face looking up at him from across the table. He didn’t taste the salmon. Didn’t taste the coffee or the salad or the sour taste of nausea in his mouth. The reminder that it would all be over soon. That it would end and it would hurt.

All he could taste were the words on Prompto’s lips as he insisted, “I want something to remember you by.”

And Ignis, in all his wisdom, dragged them to the nearest tattoo parlor.

⇋

The red string wrapped four times around Ignis’ finger – the four months of the program, the fours on their door, the four hundred years Prompto will be dead when he got back – ached, dull and raw, when he stepped from the parlor, fingers tugging idly at the plastic. He felt tired and reckless.

He felt invincible.

The convenience store was dirty and cluttered. There was a spill of something near the door. When Ignis happened across what he was looking for, he wiped away a heavy layer of grime and dust before peering at the label, confused. “Prompto,” he called, “is this it?”

Walking nervously over, Prompto managed a small, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”

Ignis shivered. Wiping his hand off on his pants, he shifted to face the store counter, eyeing the cashier skeptically.

“I can do it, if you want,” his roommate volunteered, not for the first time.

Ignis clutched the package of condoms tight before shaking his head. “No. I’ll do it myself.”

Pale hands twisted nervously. “Need a push?”

Another shake of the head was the answer. Then feet moved. They carried him across the store to the woman behind the counter. He remained silent after dropping the box onto the counter, ignoring the professional smile on the woman’s face before glancing at the small digits on the display and nervously handing over the money.

The box was placed in a small, opaque plastic sack before it was handed over, and then he left.

Prompto was at his side in an instant, grinning from ear to ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that red,” he noted affectionately. “You gonna live?”

“I’ll live,” Ignis replied, deadpan, before offering a low, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Pale hands graced the air. “Ooh – so scary! Sheep intestine dick sheathes!”

“Prompto, be serious,” Ignis snorted.

“But you don’t want me to be serious,” Prompto informed him snarkily. “You want me to be Prompto. And Prompto is silly, sometimes stupid, and totally about to sleep with you.”

Ignis flushed, then placed a finger to his lips. “Keep it down, possibly?”

“Dude, we’re speaking Japanese. No one’s going to understand us. Besides...” His hand snaked out, taking hold of Ignis’ free one as he muttered a low, “I kind of want people to know we’re together, you know? Even if it’s only for today.”

Despite himself, Ignis twined their fingers together, tattoos brushing.

They didn’t take the bus. They walked all the way back to the dorm, hand in hand. When they moved to step into their room, Prompto stopped them with a fervent, “Wait, wait - I have to get something ready.”

“Oh?” Ignis asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Just, like… close your eyes and count to a thousand.”

“Count to… a thousand?”

“Yeah.”

“That will take quite a while.”

Unlocking the door, Prompto rolled his eyes, “Dude, just close your eyes and don’t open them until you’re done, okay?”

Obediently, Ignis closed his eyes. He chortled as hands took hold of his, dragging him into the room. “One,” he began resolutely.

Prompto laughed, then his hands fell away. There came the slam of the door. Boxes. Luggage. Glasses. Something pouring.

“Fourty-five,” Ignis counted amused. “Fourty-six.”

Blankets. Pillows. The strike of a match.

“Owe,” Prompto hissed.

“Sixty-three. Are you alright? Sixty-four.”

“Yeah! Just burned myself. You can open your eyes, now.”

Ignis shook his head. “Sixty-seven. I have yet to reach one thousand. Sixty-eight.”

A groan. “Dude, I wasn’t being… Don’t fuck with me!”

Lips pursed to restrain laughter.

“Not counting anymore?”

“Sixty-nine.”

“Just open your eyes before I change my mind, loser.”

“Please don’t,” Ignis blabbed suddenly, eyes flying open to take in…

Candles lit about the room.

Fake rose petals, strewn across the bed.

Wine in plastic glasses in Prompto’s hands.

“Prompto,” he gasped.

Juggling the glasses in one hand, Prompto slid his phone from his pocket, tapping at the screen before placing it on the side table as music began to ooze through the room. “So,” he said, offering the glass, “I uh… kind of prepared a bit. You, uh… don’t have to take the wine, to be honest. I just thought it would look good.”

Ignis grinned. “I can do without the wine.”

“Cool. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he murmured, striding across the room to set the plastic glasses on the kitchen counter.

Ignis moved forward on instinct, hands cupping flushed freckled cheeks as he pressed their foreheads flush together. “You’re marvellous.”

“I try,” Prompto whispered back. “May… may I kiss you?”

“Just don’t make me count to one thousand for it.”

A laugh followed, white teeth barely visible in the dim candlelight.

Their lips met as the gentle guitar on Prompto’s phone began to quiet, and a gentle voice crooned into the room.

As they parted, Ignis found himself asking, “What’s he saying?”

Prompto paused, staring up into green eyes. His voice was hoarse as he translated softly, “I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t wanna soil my mouth. I don’t wanna sleep tonight. I don’t deserve the rest anyway.”

“Depressing, “ Ignis noted. _Fitting_ , he thought.

Prompto nodded slowly, “But I figured it suited us. This. We’re gonna have to… walk away from all of this tomorrow morning.” His voice broke. His face turned down, ears flushed. A single tear fell between them, dropping from a pale face to the carpet.

Tanned fingers found the trail quickly, wiping it away, “Then we’ll have to make the most of it.”

Blond lashes fluttered, and a gentle laugh filled the breadth between them. “It’s not like you, saying stuff like that.”

“It’s not like me to do a lot of the things I’ve done on this exchange,” he replied lightly. “But here we are.”

Prompto sighed. “Why do you have to be so wonderful?”

“I’m not. You make me better,” Ignis replied without missing a beat. “You make me want to be a good, proper man.”

A laugh. “Me? Inspire someone to be proper? That’s a new one.”

Taking hold of Prompto’s chin, Ignis angled his face up until their eyes met. “Hey,” he whispered.

Prompto seemed to calm at this. “Hey,” he murmured back.

Slowly, Ignis bent to press their lips together.

Electricity.

Air whistled past his ear as Prompto took a deep, contemplative breath through his nose. Skin dragged against skin as pale hands found a stiff collar, tracing a line around a tanned throat. “How do you want to do this?” he asked as they drew away, eyelashes dropped to half mast as his gaze fixed on the small strip of bared flesh.

Ignis opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he brought his hands up, clutching the fingers at his throat and guiding them down. As the heater kicked on in the corner, he allowed a shiver to overtake him as black nails clicked against the smooth plastic of the first button.

Hesitation followed. A high, nervous, “Are you sure?” even as fingers toyed with the fastener.

“Yes.”

The button popped through the fabric.

Then the next.

And the next.

As the shirt fell open, Ignis managed a quick breath before fingers dragged the shirt over his shoulders. It dropped to the floor, pooling on the carpet. Reaching for the hem of his undershirt, he dragged it quickly over his head.

Prompto’s lips were insistent, then, pressing against his collarbone as hands fell to the fly of clean slacks. “May I?” he asked again.

A quick nod. A sharp, “Of course.”

Slacks fell.

Hands bracketed boxy hips.

Pale knees met the floor.

Ignis gasped as a mouth found the curve of his cock through the fabric of his underwear. As a cold nose pressed flush to the curve of his hip.

“May-”

_“Yes.”_ It came out as a moan. As a loud, desperate noise that broke the air.

Prompto rose, grabbed the discarded box of condoms, and returned with a nervous, “Okay. Okay, we’re gonna do this.”

With not much else to do, Ignis stepped up and pressed a desperate kiss to pink lips.

Jaw dropping open wide, Prompto’s voice broke in a gentle groan as their tongue twined, eyes wide open as he fumbled with the cardboard. As they parted, he gasped a light, “Give a guy a second, would you?”

“I’m practically naked,” came the sharp observation. “You need to take your clothes off.”

The nod to follow was slow. Hesitant. And then…

Prompto stepped away, set down the condoms, and began to remove his clothes.

It was slow. Nervous. Off came the vest, then the shirt, revealing stretch marks that arched along the lines of a stomach flat aside from a small pouch of pudge. Ignis smiled at the sight even as hands moved to cover it. “Could you… Look away?”

Ignis startled, looking up from the exposed flesh curiously. “I don’t…” he began at first, confused. But something in Prompto’s face made him pause. Made his stomach twist and his chest jump. “Okay,” he said instead, turning away from the sight. His gaze fixed on the kitchen counter, hands clenched at his sides. “Tell me when to turn around.”

“Alright.”

He swallowed firmly.

There was the click of a belt. A zipper. The grunts and angry hisses of someone stepping out of skinny jeans. Fumbling and hopping. A sharp, angry, “I forgot my _shoes_ ,” that made Ignis laugh followed by a, “Alright. You can turn around.”

Before he did, he stepped out of his underwear. Then he turned.

Prompto was bare before him, cheeks and neck flushed, eyes scared. The stretch marks followed the length of his body; over his stomach, hips, and thighs. His cock, long and uncircumcised, jutted out from his groin at half mast. He’d put on weight since the last time they’d been shirtless around each other; just enough to show. The pudge clung to his stomach, hips, and thighs.

Ignis loved every inch of him.

They moved together slowly; each step painfully hesitant as their skin erupted in goosebumps in the cold room.

Their hands twined before anything else.

Pale eyebrows furrowed, blue eyes drawing up to catch with green. “Are you ready?”

“No,” came the breathed reply.

Prompto grinned. “Me neither.” And with that he pulled Ignis toward the bed.

It was only a few bare steps before they fell upon it, rose petals spilling off onto the floor as their chests met and limbs tangled.

Ignis fell on top, but was quickly turned back into the mattress as Prompto spun them about, pressing him into the sheets. Back to the pillows, Ignis stared up at the man above him. His roommate. His friend.

His lover.

The thought put a hitch in his throat. A hitch that caught as Prompto threw bony legs over his, mounting him.

Pale hands took hold of the cardboard box, ripping a small foil packet free before tearing it expertly. “Ready?” he asked.

Ignis could barely bring himself to nod. He held his breath as a hand descended. As he was taken into cold fingers and given a slight tug. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Too cold?” Prompto asked, unsure.

“A bit.”

He paused, pulling his hands back to give them a cursory rub together before reaching back down, pressing a thumb to the head of Ignis’ cock.

A hiss broke the air.

“Better?”

“Yes,” he gasped, hardening beneath the touch. He arched against the bed, pillows shuffling at his back. “Yes,” he managed again as the hand gripped him with bolder strokes, voice weak as his eyes fluttered shut. But just as his lashes sat against his cheeks, a hand brushed the side of his face and they opened once more.

Prompto stared down at him, expression desperate as he feverishly demanded, “Look at me.”

It was a moment before Ignis could process the words. Before he responded with a sharp nod and eyes wide open. He watched as Prompto’s hands fumbled with the foil, then the sheepskin, rolling it over his cock with practiced precision.

Blue eyes turned back up, searching. Lips trembled as he stuttered out a hesitant, “D- Do you… Do you want to… finger me?”

“I’ve never done it before,” came the breathed admission.

Prompto was quick to reach for the bedside table, then; reaching into the drawer to retrieve a small bottle of lube. “Then you’re in for quite the show.”

Ignis barely had the frame of mind to swallow as he watched the plastic cap pop open, lube spilling out over pale fingers before Prompto reached between his legs and groaned. He was thrusting up in seconds; pushing up between narrow thighs to rub himself against his lover’s arm. He could feel himself begin to strain; cock shining a bright purple even through the sheepskin.

Collapsing over his lover, free hand landing deep in one of the pillows to send rose petals scattering, Prompto delved forward to press his lips to a bare throat. He licked a stripe up to a sharp jaw, then peppered the broad chin with kisses even as his hips pushed into his own hand, grinding against the hard cock beneath him.

Turning his face down, Ignis brought his hands to the sides of a narrow face and drew his lover in for a kiss. It was all tongue. All the desperate opening of mouths and hard gasps. Heavy moans. Lube dripped down from between narrow thighs to ooze along boxy hips, easing the slide of a long cock that jumped against the flesh of a busy hand.

Flushed lips broke apart. “Three fingers,” Prompto gasped dryly. “I’m up to three. We can probably start.”

“Are you sure?”

His answer was to pull away, pull his hand from between his legs, give Ignis’ cock a good stroke, and to proceed to press it against his opening. “Sorry in advance if I get shit on your dick. No time to douche, you know?”

“I don’t care,” he found himself firing back. “I’m with you.”

Prompto’s lips pinched in a small, shy smile before he breathed a long, slow breath. “This is it,” he murmured, hips rocking gently against the length against his ass. “Can you, uh, hold me apart? I’m… It might make this easier.”

Quick to comply, Ignis sat straight up, hands flying to the pale globes of his lover’s ass to pry them apart. He pressed wide, open-mouthed kisses to the flesh he could find, dragging his tongue up a pert, pinking nipple.

And then Prompto began to sink down.

He could hardly breathe.

Prompto was warm. He could tell that much through the condom. His hands were cold and his toes were ice, but inside he was _warm_.

As warm as his eyes.

As warm as his smile.

As warm as Ignis’ chest, heart pounding away in its little cage until there was almost nothing else to feel.

Almost.

And then there was Prompto. Just Prompto. Only Prompto as far as he could reach as his lover seated himself on Ignis’ cock and he was Inside. They were together.

One.

He couldn’t breathe.

Bending forward, a pale forehead pressed into mussed dark hair. “I’m gonna need a moment.”

Lips parted in a sharp, shuddered gasp. “It’s yours,” he promised softly, hands drawing away from the curve of his lover’s ass to slide up a narrow back. “It’s all yours.”

Pale lashes fluttered shut, and Prompto breathed a long, shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay,” he whispered. “It’s… It’s been a while. I’m a little tight.”

Ignis chuckled, a rose petal falling from his shoulder onto the floor. “You’re perfectly fine. I wouldn’t know the difference if you hadn’t said anything,” he confessed. “I was a virgin two minutes ago.”

Prompto froze.

Leaning back, Ignis fought back a wave of panic, heart thundering painfully in his chest as he asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” came the immediate reply. “No, I just….” Clearing his throat, he shifted nervously before managing a high, “So… you’ve never… done it before?”

A nod, quick and nervous.

A breath, long and tired. “Wow.”

“Bad wow?”

“No, just…” Pink lips puckered in a low, anxious whistle. “So, uh… We’ve got a while to wait. How come you never… you know…”

“Never what?”

“How come you never slept with anyone?”

Easing forward slightly, Ignis dragged his nose against the line of Prompto’s jaw, humming lightly. “I never wanted to until I met you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m…” He trailed off, lips trembling as his eyebrows scrunched and his nose flared with each labored breath. When he finally spoke his voice was firm. Content. “I’m honored.”

Light shifted through the room as the candle at their side flickered, sending shadows across their bodies, highlighting the gentle shine of sweat that clung to their skin. “Are you ready?” Ignis asked as the light settled, illuminating an eager, nervous smile and bright green eyes.

Nodding firmly, Prompto braced his hands against broad shoulders, legs drawing up under him to press against the bed. “Yeah,” he replied weakly. “I’m gonna… start moving.”

A tongue darted nervously over pale lips. Leaning forward, Ignis placed the smallest of kisses against the gentle curve of a collarbone. He lingered, breath washing over his lover’s skin before he pressed his mouth against the dip of flesh just above. It was only then that he pulled away. Then that he fixed his eyes on bright blue and gave a soft, “Go ahead.”

“Can you, uh, lay back?” came the nervous request. “This position isn’t… ideal.”

“Yes,” was the quick reply. “Of course.” Being sure that the hands on his shoulders were braced elsewhere, Ignis leaned quickly back, being careful of the headboard before he fell into the pillows. “Is this good?”

A quick nod and Prompto followed him, collapsing against his lover to press a hurried, fevered kiss to waiting lips.

Large hands found bony shoulders as Ignis dropped his jaw wide to accommodate the eager mouth on his. The tongue that slid between his teeth and drew against the roof of his mouth even as cold feet jammed themselves beneath his legs. Lifting his knees, he groaned as the first cant of his lover’s hips squeezed the base of his cock, slowly working upwards, and air was suddenly scarce. His hands fell to narrow hips in search of an anchor.

“You okay?”

“It’s a lot,” he gasped, watching as blue eyes pulled quickly away. “Keep going.”

“Alright.”

Hands drawing up from narrow hips, Ignis bracketed the face before him, pulling his lover down for a wash of kisses even as their bodies began to shift. As Prompto eased forward atop him in a slow roll of flesh on flesh that left Ignis’ toes curling as the pressure slid most deliciously up the vein along the underside of his cock. His groan was felt in two mouths, drowned in their kiss.

Lithe legs trembled as they eased back, driving Prompto back down onto Ignis’ cock. “That’s good,” he mouthed against his lover’s lips. “That’s so good.”

“Want me to move?”

“No, no, no – this is perfect. _God_ , you’re so far inside me,” he gasped wetly, mouth falling away from pale lips to drag against a high cheekbone.

That’s when the first tear fell.

Prompto was there in an instant, wiping it away, leaving a smear of lube in his wake. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmured. “That’s gotta be gross.”

A laugh fought from a broad chest, shaking them both. “You’re perfectly fine,” Ignis insisted warmly. “You’re perfectly perfect.”

A flush met the words, then Prompto braced his legs against the bed and pushed back up for another slow drag of skin.

Despite himself, another tear slipped from Ignis’ eye. But instead of addressing it – instead of laughing it off or something else that Prompto would do – he turned his head for a kiss and reached a hand down to grip the purpled cock squashed between their stomachs, ignoring the twinge of the tattoo on his finger. “You’re perfect.”

Prompto laughed, lips splitting in a wide grin even as his eyes began to water. “I’m not,” he insisted wetly. “I’m really not.”

“You are to me.”

Reaching down, a pale hand drew the fingers away from his cock, pressing them instead to the bed, repeating the action with the other hand. Then, arched above his lover, he rolled his hips.

Ignis writhed.

“Like that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They finished like that; hands twined, eyes locked, faces wet, Ignis so deep inside Prompto they might as well have been the same person.

To Ignis, the entire thing seemed almost religious, but there was no faith. Only Prompto, falling onto him and kissing him within an inch of his life, twining their bodies together until there was no space to be found between them.

⇋

It was the early morning hours when Ignis woke. When he blinked fiercely at the light spilling through the curtains. It was a bare moment before he realized he had company; before the events of the night before washed over him. Before he recalled a shaky hand and eager lips. Sincere words and tears.

At his side lay Prompto.

He seemed almost ethereal in the morning sun. He glowed, hair shimmering.

Unable to help himself, Ignis threw his arm across his lover and tugged him flush to his chest. There came a sleepy groan, then a shift. Their hands tangled on the bed, and Ignis did his best to ignore the subtle burn of the tattoo on his finger.

They curled up together and went back to sleep.

⇋

It was significantly later when Ignis woke again, rising from the blankets to find his clothes already laid out across the end of the bed.

Prompto’s hands were on his shoulders, shaking him awake. His eyes were red, and a stray tear attempted to work its way down his cheek. It was quickly wiped away. “Our buses are coming,” he said.

Ignis’ stomach dropped.

“I, uh… got some of your clothes out for you. I… I wanted you to get some sleep.”

It took everything Ignis had not to say, “We’ll keep in touch.” “I’ll visit.” “Please stay. I’ll stay with you.” But there were rules. Rules that said he couldn’t have this.

Prompto pulled away.

“I wanted more time,” he admitted, voice shaking with the effort to speak.

His roommate – no longer roommate, no longer his _lover_ , brief though it was – froze at this before managing a soft, “I did, too.”

Ignis was up and across the room before another word could be said, wrapping his arms firm around lithe shoulders and feeling the sob that broke through the both of them with his whole body. “I’ll call you when I land,” he insisted against his better judgement. “During my layover; I’ll call you.”

“I love you,” Prompto sobbed, voice hoarse, before tearing out of Ignis’ arms and pushing out into the hall.

As Ignis pulled on his clothes, gathering his luggage and his life from that tiny shared dorm room he’d stayed in for the last four months, he began to wonder if he could stay. If he could keep the phone and take the plane ticket to Japan and… what? Get a life? Find Prompto again? Be with him in the past, away from everything he’d ever known? All because of four months.

He boarded the bus.

The lines of his new tattoo ached with each shift.

⇋

He half expected Prompto not to pick up, but when Ignis dialed him after landing in Toronto he was surprised when the call went through. “Hey,” he whispered.

_“Hey.”_ His voice was wet. Tired.

“I, uh… have a one hour layover in Canada. Where are you?”

There was static. A chime. _“Texas?”_ He didn’t sound sure.

Ignis swallowed hard, shifting uneasily in his chair. “Thanks. For picking up.”

_“What can I say?”_ Laughter bubbled through the line before a bitter, _“I’m determined to make this harder,”_ followed.

“I’m the same,” he admitted under his breath.

_“I want this call to last forever.”_

Eyes falling shut, Ignis retreated into his chair with a small, breathed, “Me, as well.”

There came a heavy, sad sniff from the other end of the line.

“Don’t cry,” Ignis ordered weakly. “If you cry, I’ll cry, too.”

_“Sorry. I’ll keep it in.”_

“You don’t have to,” he croaked. “I was… trying one of your jokes.”

_“I love you_ .” It came through as a broken whisper. _“I’m… I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I know it’s show, don’t tell in Japan, but I just – I love you.”_

“I love you, too.”

There came a hiccup. A cough. The hiss of breath into a microphone.

“Prompto-”

_“I can’t do this.”_

The line cut out. Ignis’ fingers streaked against the screen, attempting to reopen the call, but there came no answer. Lowing the phone to his chest, he locked his phone with a long sigh.

Something in his chest – the something that had barely healed, the something that had broken before – shattered.

 

# Part Six: Non-Linear

 

Ignis’ eyes open on the future – on the _present_ – and Dr. Fleuret’s face is nothing more than a distant memory.

“Welcome back,” she says, grin wide and earnest. She reaches for his bags, tugging them out of the pod and onto the floor. “You’re probably tired.”

“Yes,” he agrees softly. His voice is distant. His eyes are in another time.

With a hand on his shoulder, she guides him carefully to the door. “It can take time to adjust. I’ve already messaged your teachers.”

Ignis nods, slow and jerky. “Thank you,” he manages before reaching for the knob and pulling the door open. Ms. Elshett is on the other side, hoisting her gun higher as she steps toward the wall to make room for him.

As soon as he passes her, he pauses.

Gladiolus.

He stands at the end of the hall, lit by the light of the windows, facing away from Ignis and frozen in place as if he’d been thinking of leaving but couldn’t quite make it. And maybe that was the reality. As Ignis approaches, his former friend doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave or start shouting. He can’t quite remember how they parted any more. The memory is distant and hollow.

Everything feels hollow.

Pulling up beside the taller man, Ignis manages a soft, “You waited.”

“It was maybe a minute; we just got here,” is the breathy reply. He turns, piercing brown eyes lighting on sunken eyes and chapped lips. “You look like shit.”

“Long flight,” is the automatic reply.

Gladiolus snorts. “Whatever that means.” It might be condescending. Might be amusement or anger or dismissal in his voice. But all the same he reaches for the largest suitcase and begins down the hall.

By the time they make it back to the elevator, Gladiolus’ attention is firmly on eyes that don’t water and a nose that doesn’t run. “You know, it’s kind of weird, seeing you not react to being outside.”

“I’m on medication,” is the initial response.

“Is that a tattoo?”

Ignis glances down as the doors close, eyes lighting on the four strings of red wrapped around his pinky, clothed in a small bit of plastic.

“Iggy, what’s wrong?” Gladiolus asks, voice so soft the whir of the elevator nearly drowns him out.

The familiarity is lost on Ignis – the gentleness in his voice, the sweet tone and sweeter use of his nickname – as his breath grows quick and labored.

“Iggy, can I look at it?”

He offers his hand with a weak nudge even as his vision begins to blur. The fingers across his palm are soft as they angle him and eyes rake over his tattoo.

“Did you fall in love?”

The first few tears plop to the floor.

_“Iggy.”_ The endearment is almost sharp. A scolding and a sympathetic whisper wrapped together in a mesh of emotions. “Come on; hold it in until we get to the dorms, okay?”

⇋

They barely make it through Ignis’ door before they’re on the floor, bags a mess as sobs break through the air. Large hands comb through dark, messy hair as tears race down sharp cheekbones. “He’s dead,” is wheezed out between heavy, labored breaths. “He’s dead. He’s dead…”

⇋

Fingers stiff from hyperventilation, splayed across his bed, it’s half an hour before Ignis gets a hold of himself.

From the chair, Gladiolus watches him carefully. “Who were they?” he asks, arms limp against the rests. “The person you fell in love with; who were they?”

It’s a while before Ignis can answer. Before his chest heaves for the requisite breath and he half chokes out a broken, “He was my roommate.”

“Was he cute?”

It’s a moment before Ignis gets up. Before he fumbles through his pockets to produce his phone. “I can show you,” he announces softly, the smallest of smiles lighting on his lips. “He kept insisting that we take photos together.” Navigating to the gallery, he ignores the no-signal warning. He flips quickly to the photo of the day it snowed. The snowman is small and pathetic at best, but the sight of the little creation between himself and a smiling Prompto makes his heart swoop.

“Kinda plain looking,” Gladiolus notes dryly.

“Not all of us can be breathtakingly gorgeous,” Ignis fires back. “Besides, back then it wasn’t so uncommon. Illness was far more prevalent.”

A laugh. “You saying he was hot, comparatively?”

“No,” Ignis breathes. “I’m saying he was beautiful.” He quickly pushes the phone into large hands, curling up on the bed with a sigh.

Gladiolus makes a noise.

“Yes?”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“Prompto Argentum. Why?”

“Argentum. Like silver?”

“I suppose so.”

Gladiolus’ expression shifts, then he rises to his feet. “Get up. We’re going on a road trip.”

⇋

“You could at least tell me where we’re going,” Ignis complains softly as the bullet train gives a gentle shake. He adjusts his glasses, so foreign against his face after so long. So light.

Gladiolus glances back at him before flicking his fingers in front of his glasses. “Good. Looks like I can send it to you now.”

“Send what?”

_“Receiving file, kupo,”_ his digital assistant announces. _“Would you like to open it?”_

“You might want to watch that on the way,” Gladiolus suggests softly. “You kept complaining about not being allowed to access it. Well, now you can.”

“Access…” Ignis trails off, staring at the name of the file, “False President.” “Is this Dr. Gin’s footage?” he asks, shocked.

“Better,” comes the low reply. “It’s Prompto’s.”

Eyes widen in shock before trembling lips manage a weak, “Moogle, play file.”

The video is too close. Or maybe the past was just too far away. There’s a crowd, familiar pink hats, the swaying of bodies as they sing, and then text.

_January 21st, 2017_

_Million Women March_

_Washington D.C., United States_

And then it’s Prompto, talking to the screen in English. Ignis can’t understand a word of it, but he seems so _happy_.

A familiar voice talks over him, gravelly and worn. “We find ourselves at the Million Women March, preparing to take the capitol.”

Ignis watches as he goes on to interview people. As he slightly shakes on screen; his own brand of nerves.

The video goes from interview to interview, skipping from woman to woman until, in what feels like a breath of acid, the camera settles on a fountain. On freshly bleached hair shoved under a pink, knitted hat.

On him.

Then it shifts, once again all business. They talk about inequality. About racial disparity. About alienation within the activists of transwomen and their exclusion from the narrative.

And then it’s on them.

“How do you feel about being here, man?” Prompto asked, voice as sweet and gentle as Ignis remembers it.

Ignis watches himself on screen, tears threatening to spill over as he lazily admitted, “It’s all rather exciting.”

A laugh followed. “Must be _pretty_ exciting if you’re saying so.”

Two weeks and Prompto had already _known_ him.

Gladiolus tugs on his hand, and they’re moving. But Ignis can’t bear to take his eyes off the screen as it cuts to a new date.

_April 22nd, 2017_

_March for Science_

_Washington D.C. United States_

Ignis’ chest gives a twist as they both come on screen. Prompto was wearing his favorite shirt – the one with the Nasa logo with “Rogue” across the front.

The shirt he wore when they left.

He recalls all too vividly how soft it was.

It’s another slew of interviews, and it seems to go on forever. They board another train, and Ignis would wonder where they were going if Prompto hadn’t stopped to briefly interview him, asking what he thought of the whole situation.

He’d bent toward the mic and said, “I’m not very tuned in to politics, but Global Warming is very real.”

Prompto had thrown an arm over Ignis’ shoulder with a snort, bringing him closer with a casual, “What do you _mean_ you aren’t political? You’re here, aren’t you?”

Despite himself, Ignis laughs.

Out of the corner of his eye there is movement. Gladiolus taking hold of his hand and pulling him toward the doors. Onscreen, a new title flashes.

_February 12, 2017_

_Not My President Rallies_

_Tokyo, Japan_

Ignis stares at the title, confused. There’s shaky camera footage of Japan and not much else for a while. He reaches up to pause, but a hand falls on his.

“Keep watching,” Gladiolus insists just as a flash of blond shows on the screen.

“No.”

The hand on his grows tight.

Onscreen, Prompto comes into frame as he approaches a crowd of people holding signs. _“It’s February in Japan, and Anti-Trump protests have cropped up-”_

“How long have you known?” The words slip from Ignis between slow, anxious breaths.

“I’m the one who alerted the staff about your presence in the video,” Gladiolus admits softly. “So about five years now.”

_“It seems the Anti-Trump protests are made up mostly of Americans living in Japan, or Native Japanese people who grew up off the island. Many of them speak very good English, so it looks like a lot of these interviews will be mixed.”_

The train stutters to a pause, and Gladiolus gives his hand a tug. “This is our stop,” he insists dryly.

Ignis follows him out. Follows him up the elevator as Prompto laughs onscreen. He turns off the video, feeling something like nerves in his stomach. “Where are we going, Gladiolus?” he asks as the double doors fly open.

Outside, a spiritual gate awaits them among the trees.

Gladiolus starts through the doors with a low, “We’re going to the paper archives. We’re in Takozushiyama, near Tano, in the Wakayama prefecture.”

Ignis follows in a daze. He throws an arm over his nose as they walk, occasionally sneezing into his elbow as his eyes begin to water. But the hand on his keeps him on track until they finally reach a large building with high glass walls. “Why are you doing this?” he asks as Gladiolus opens the door.

“Because you’re my friend,” is the simple reply.

Green eyes widen sharply at this. But after a moment’s pause he follows Gladiolus through the doors and into a wide foyer cluttered with tables. Two people are bent over a large book – an actual book – near the wall, reading by the sunlight. He watches as Gladiolus approaches them, a firm, “Hey, guys, have you seen Dr. Gin?” on his lips.

Ignis’ heart stutters.

“Yeah. He’s in the wet paper room, I think. Some stuff just came in. He’s spraying them.”

A large hand runs nervously through dark hair at this. “Dammit.”

The student leans back in their chair to meet his eyes. “He should have his glasses,” they suggest quietly. “His e-mail is on the archive homepage.”

Ignis watches as Gladiolus heads back, practically vibrating.

“Let’s head to the mess, okay? I’m going to e-mail him.”

⇋

Ignis gets drinks while Gladiolus sends the e-mail, scrolling through the menu until he finds _it_ hidden near the bottom. He returns to the table, tea in one hand, coffee in the other. He settles the mugs carefully against the table, pulling out the seat with a foot before collapsing into it.

For a long time there is only silence.

As the minutes slip by, Ignis works up the courage to look at Gladiolus properly, face to face, lips moving slowly in a solemn, “I’m sorry.”

Brown eyes slide up, cautious. “For what?”

“For everything,” he whispers in reply. “For being an ass. For hurting you. For leading you on. For turning against you when you trusted me. For taking advantage of your affections to make me feel… better, I guess.”

“Is that why you did it?” he asks, curious. “To ‘feel better?’”

Lips purse. A head shakes. “I was desperate for something, and I only realized at the last moment I didn’t want it with you.”

There’s a bitter silence before Gladiolus asks, “Do you want it with Prompto?”

“Yes,” comes the immediate answer. “Yes, I do.”

It’s a while before anyone speaks. The silence settles between them like a gas, filling the air and making even breathing a chore.

And then Gladiolus’ hand rose, and he manages a low, “He’s started office hours.”

Ignis can only nod, unable to do much until his companions rises to his feet.

“Come on,” he prompts, offering a hand.

⇋

_Gin, Jinsoku_

_Doctorate and PHD, Second Millennium History_

Ignis stares at the nameplate for a long time, reading over the kanji for a long moment before his eyes trace over the words he cannot understand, but remembers seeing them scrawled at the top of paper after paper, handed back to teachers and burned into his brain.

_Dr. Prompto Argentum_

_Doctorate and PhD, Second Millennium History_

Like many things, whatever Ignis might have caught before that moment had been lost in translation.

“You ready?” Gladiolus asks, hand inching toward the door.

Ignis stares at it a long while – admires the old-fashioned lock and the matte glass – before managing a weak, “Yes.”

Three low knocks sound through the hall.

_“Come in.”_

“You really ready?” he asks once more.

“No,” Ignis replies, but motions for him to go ahead anyways.

They move into the room, but Prompto doesn’t look up.

_Prompto_.

Blond hair, freckles for days, and the softest slope of a nose. He’s gained weight; no longer the stick he was in college. His cheeks are round, hair is long, and modern glasses sit on his nose like they belong there. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a chance to chat, Mr. Amicitia,” he says, and his voice is deeper. Scratchy from overuse. “I’ve heard good things. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gladiolus steels himself before announcing, “A friend of mine just came back from an exchange program...”

Slowly, a pale face nudges carefully upward.

“... and we were hoping you could shed some light on the situation.”

His eyes are just the same, but framed by crows feet and accompanied by stress lines. There’s a tuft of the beginnings of a beard on his chin.

A single glove sits on his right hand.

“I’ll excuse myself,” Gladiolus announces before turning. His eyes meet Ignis’ quickly as he leaves, then closes the door behind him.

And they’re alone.

Prompto slowly stands.

Ignis feels his chest lurch. “Good evening,” he manages after a while, finding bravery despite the way Prompto’s gaze makes him feel – like a ghost that’s risen from the past. “I apologize if this is… sudden.”

Blue eyes cast away, nervous. “This has been anything but sudden.”

“What do you mean?”

Prompto bites his lip for a moment before answering, tense. “I was made aware of your… _presence_ about four years ago.”

Slowly, Ignis nods.

“It’s been difficult,” comes the gentle admission.

“Are you married?” The question is out before Ignis can bother to stop it. There’s no disguising the hope on his face.

Prompto shakes his head.

“Are you… in a relationship?”

“Not at the moment?”

Ignis can hardly breathe. “How long has it been for you?”

A pale hand falls to the back of a chair, and Prompto gives a weak shrug. “... I’m not sure, exactly. My life is… It’s a bit non-linear. Most of my career has been spent recording footage for the archives. On paper, I guess it’s been about ten years.”

“Oh.”

“But you should know… That phone call during your layover?”

“Yes?”

“I was in Calgary at the time. It had been an entire year and a half since I had seen you.”

“... What?”

“I didn’t pick up the first time you called, but I was determined to catch you the second time around.”

“That’s… a bit difficult to comprehend.”

Blue eyes shift to the door, then back to Ignis before Prompto reaches for his glove, pulling it carefully off. His exposed hand is even paler than the rest of him, but his tattoo is what draws the eye. Still wrapped around his pinky. Still bright, though the edges have begun to fade.

Ten years.

Ignis swallows around the lump in his throat. “This is quite the mess,” he manages.

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees, voice breaking. “Yeah, it is.”

A silence settles.

Blue eyes turn away, and pale hands find the desk as Prompto faces the back wall and settles against the desk. “Look,” he begins, voice surprisingly even, “I’m not the same guy you… _know_ , alright? I’m…” Older.

Wiser.

Your indirect superior.

“... different.”

A moment passes, and Ignis carefully rounds the desk. He presses his right hand over Prompto’s. Stares at their tattoos and marvels at their nails. His are still painted black; his pointer and middle finger still uneven from slamming his hand in the door. Prompto’s hands are bare of paint, save for a single splotch of professional gray. “Then I guess we’ll just have to get to know each other again.”

“We’ll have to ask permission.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to cover your hand or people will speculate.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to keep affection to a minimum in public.”

“I know,” Ignis says once more, hand growing tight over Prompto’s. His expression twists. “Please look at me.”

Slowly, Prompto complies.

Ignis eases forward, pressing their foreheads flush together like they’d done so many times. He revels in the nervous breath that washes over his face. In the twitch of a hand beneath his. In the flicker of blue eyes down to his lips. “May I kiss you?”

“I’m at least ten years your senior,” comes the gentle insistence.

“That’s not a no.”

“Wait until you know me again.”

Slowly, Ignis nods against Prompto’s. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice hardly a whisper. Then, again, a low and sated, “Okay.”

⇋

The ride back is tense.

“You alright?” Gladiolus asks after they board the second train.

“Thank you, Gladio,” is the only reply.

⇋

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“The pancakes are helping.”

⇋

The hearing comes all too quickly.

Ignis picks at his gloves, not for the first time that day. They feel a touch too tight around his pinky, though the bandage is gone and he’s left with just the tattoo, hidden beneath a thin layer of fabric.

“Thank you for coming,” one of the women across from him greets as the rest of the board takes their seats.

It’s the same room as he’d been in for his presentation.

He bows politely, if a bit stiff. “Thank you as well.”

The woman flicks her finger, orange, then another, green – ambidextrous? – and her glasses shimmer before she looks Ignis dead in the eye. “We find ourselves in an interesting predicament.”

Slowly, Ignis nods.

She appears to look something over, then her eyes focus on him once more. “Just so you are aware, Dr. Gin underwent a similar interview four years ago, after your presence at the school was brought to our attention. He sat through a similar one yesterday, as well.”

He nods again, firmer this time.

A throat is cleared, and the woman graces him with a worn smile. “And with that, let us get this hearing underway.” Her orange finger flicks. “Ignis Stupeo Scientia, when you traveled to study the turn of the second Millennia for your thesis, how did you meet Dr. Gin?”

Sitting up straighter, Ignis replied with a firm, “We had been assigned as roommates.”

“Were you aware that Dr. Gin was from our time?”

“No, I was not.”

“Was Dr. Gin aware of your status at the time?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

She flicks her green finger. “How old was Dr. Gin when you met?”

Ignis fights not to purse his lips at this. His hands grow tight in his lap. “Twenty years old,” he replies calmly.

“What is your current age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Would you consider this a large age-gap?”

“Two years is not a large age gap.”

Orange finger. “How would you describe your relationship to the then twenty year old Dr. Gin?”

Ignis pauses at this. His gaze flicks over the board. “Prompto,” he began quietly, only to pause, then resume anew. “We were good friends. I’ve never…” He swallows. Hard. “He taught me a lot about myself. After a while I started to develop feelings for him. He suggested we keep our distance, and I agreed.”

“How did that work out?”

“It didn’t.”

“Did you have sexual relations with Dr. Gin?”

A flush rises high in Ignis’ chest at this, flooding his neck and cheeks as his eyes turn away even as he answers a shy, “Yes.”

“Has Dr. Gin approached you about continuing this relationship?” she asks, voice firm and commanding. It is the truly important question. The only one that really matters.

“I approached him,” Ignis corrects softly. “He insisted we wait until a panel approves before getting to know each other again.”

“Does Dr. Gin wish to continue this relationship with you?”

“I…” He swallows. “I assume so. I hope so.”

Her finger flicks again. Orange. “Does it bother you that he is now ten years your senior?”

Yes. “I don’t know yet.”

“Do you intend to continue in your field of study?”

Ignis blinks. “Of course I do.”

The woman purses her lips, then swipes at something. Her hands fold on the desk. “Do you, Ignis Scientia, intend to continue to pursue your field knowing that Dr. Gin will have to be excluded from each and every peer review you submit your work for, and that your work will be carefully scanned to confirm his hand was not involved in your work?”

“That sounds reasonable, yes.”

“Would you be amenable to visiting a relationship counselor every two weeks in joint with Dr. Gin, along with a private visit for yourself every other week?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Finally, she smiles. Her orange finger flicks, and the rest of the board joins her, hands raised and heads high. “Well,” she murmurs, “with a nine to two majority, your relationship will be permitted. You seem sound of mind in relation to the situation, and it doesn’t appear that Dr. Gin is taking advantage of the situation.” Attention shifting back to Ignis, she nods quickly. “Your work will be watched, but I suggest you take care in professional spaces.” She motions for him to leave.

It takes a lot in him not to sprint to the door. Not to jump out of his seat and get out of the room as fast as he can as a single message comes through on his glasses and he casually flicks a finger toward the app.

_From Dr. Jinsoku Gin:_

_I’m in the cafeteria._

As soon as Ignis gets out into the hall, he sets off at a run.

⇋

The cafeteria is the same as always, but it feels different with Prompto in the center, holed up in front of a plate of sweet potato fries. Or maybe it’s just Ignis’ heart beating double time against his chest telling him that as he crosses the room. As he weaves between the tables and approaches the man who makes him feel unsure. “Morning,” he greets as he pulls out a chair, joining his… friend? Boyfriend? Partner?

“Good morning,” Prompto replies, smile plain. He taps the side of his glasses, tilting his head into the motion. “They just sent me the hearing results. Congratulations.”

“You say that like you haven’t been waiting for me,” Ignis notes dryly. “Admit it. You were nervous.”

“Aren’t I always?” he drawls, flush plain on his face.

Ignis nearly jumps at the feeling of a leg against his, dragging up his calf affectionately. Sensually. Clearing his throat, he turns his gaze to the table. “You hide it well.”

The leg stills. “I’ve missed you.”

Slowly, a grin graces a wide jaw. “I was under the impression that we should keep the public affection to a minimum,” he notes, even as his hand slides forward.

Their fingers link.

He breathes a relieved sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this big,” Prompto says, voice sweet.

“I don’t think I’ve ever smiled this big,” Ignis replies warmly.

“I have class in an hour.” A pause. Lips are bitten. A hand is squeezed. “How about… How about after, we head back to my place and talk things over?”

Shyly, Ignis twists their fingers together. “I’d like that.”

⇋

Ignis wakes the next morning to Prompto climbing back into bed with a bowl.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Curry,” Prompto answers, dipping a spoon into the broth. “Want some?”

“Yes, please.”

Prompto offers the spoon, and chases every bite with a kiss.

They make it through half the bowl before they get distracted.

⇋

There’s a small café at the edge of campus that Ignis arrives at, only to find Noctis and Prompto laughing about something while Gladiolus leans back in his chair, relaxing.

A large hand waves in greeting. “Hey, Iggy. We knew you’d get here early, so we all got here an hour in advance,” Gladiolus says in way of greeting.

Ignis bites back a laugh, instead responding with a tight, “How did I know they’d get along?” before taking a seat.

A sigh. “Maybe because they’re both dorks.”

Noctis pretends to be insulted by this for all of two seconds before turning to Ignis with a warm, “Where’d you find this guy? He’s great.”

“2017, I believe,” is the smart reply as he nudges his foot forward beneath the table into Prompto’s. This earns a laugh.

“No, seriously,” Noctis continues brightly, “you are the _best_ influence on this loser.”

“I’m a loser, now, am I?”

Prompto snorts. “Well, you’re blind, at least.”

Gladiolus cups his hand around his mouth and fills the air with a series of ironic boos.

“Pardon?”

A pale hand motions to Gladio. “Dude, you chose me over a _living statue_.”

Large arms flex mockingly.

Ignis stares. “I-”

“Don’t answer that seriously. Wasn’t a question,” Prompto cuts in quickly, slightly panicked.

“What?”

“We had a good talk before you got here,” Gladiolus informs him with a wide grin. “You know – man to man. About you. Cleared the air about some stuff. And we’ve come to the tentative, only partially serious conclusion that you have horrible taste.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled to be with you. It’s just… look at him.” Prompto motions to Gladiolus’ biceps. “He could break me into pieces with his bare hands.”

Ignis stares openly at Gladiolus as he attempts to restrain laugher. “You’re getting quite the kick out of all this, aren’t you?”

“I’m just…” he laughs, pausing a bit before before gasping out, “... so _relieved_.”

Noctis glances between them, confused. “I’ve missed something.”

“So have I,” Ignis admits softly.

Leaning back in his chair, Gladiolus shakes with laughter. “For the longest time…” He gasps. “For the _longest time_ I was scared we weren’t going to figure out how to get out of that shit, and everything would be all over. But then _Deus Ex Machinery_ here pops up out of nowhere like, ‘Oh, I dated Ignis in the past!’ and we’re like ‘What past?’ and you guys are like ‘400 years ago’ and suddenly everything’s fine and dandy and I’m just _fucking relieved_.”

⇋

It’s late, Ignis is going through his thesis one last time, and Prompto steps into the room, moonlight bouncing from his pale chest. “It’s getting a little late.”

Ignis glances at the clock in his glasses before breathing a sigh. Arms arching above his head, he stretches for a short moment before bringing his hand down, sending the screen away. “It is.”

“Come back to bed.”

Rising from his seat, Ignis follows Prompto back into the bedroom. They crawl beneath the blankets, Ignis spooned around his boyfriend. His lover.

His partner.

As Ignis lay in bed, arms wrapping around his _partner_ and settling in for the long haul, his eyes land on the windows. The curtains have been left open, flooding the room with moonlight. And through the thick panes of glass, trees shift back and forth in the breeze. An owl passes by on the hunt, majestic and bold, and Ignis listens as the man at his back breathes softly.

A contentedness fills him, and he falls asleep sated, happy, and very much in love.

**Author's Note:**

> “Translation” Notes
> 
> Iku - “Ignis,” when spoken in Japanese, is broken into four syllables. When you say “Iggy,” you’re actually pronouncing it like, “ee-goo,” or igu. “Iku” (行く) means “Go,” and is used in casual conversation. The joke is that Prompto misheard him and thought the nickname was a pun for being socially active.  
>   
> ‘Death-Zero-Death’ - The word for “four” in Japanese is pronounced the same as “Death.” It is generally viewed as bad luck, and you are unlikely to find rooms in older hospitals with the number four in their lineup.  
>   
> D-C-S-U and “Desu?” - Literally just google desu. It’s so pervasive it’s a meme. I couldn’t help it. Also, there’s no DC State University. I made this up.
> 
> Reviews feed my soul.
> 
> This story is an installment in the Promnised Land Big Bang. You guys should check the collection out!


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